Murder.com (15 page)

Mike informed us that he would be joining Ken. We
wished each other a merry Christmas, and both Imogen and I
expressed our hopes that Kate should make a speedy recovery from
her twenty-four-hour virus. He thanked us and then walked toward
the bar. Ginny and I looked at each other, finished our respective
drinks, and wandered toward the exit.

"One more for the road?" I asked,
pulling another glass of champagne off a meandering waiter's
tray.

Ginny grabbed another wine and
then we stood silently, eyes closed, sipping, clicking our ruby-red
heels together. Wishing that we'd be home soon.

Our hope for an early exit was
fleeting, as I heard Ken's voice above the fray calling for me. I
opened my eyes and saw him moving toward me from the bar area.
Imogen shuddered. This time he had someone walking with
him.

"Max. Max!" Ken called as he
continued to approach.

The man walking with Ken was dressed a bit more
formally than myself. He was about fifty years old, had on the same
uniform as me, but was sporting a tie. He was tanned, had a shaved
head, sky-blue eyes, and soft facial features. He was a
good-looking guy.

"I'm taking a walk. I can't bear
to listen to these two." Imogen was opting out of this meeting. I
couldn't blame her. In fact, I wished I could join her. She turned
and walked in the opposite direction of the dynamic duo.

I stared forward, watching Ken and his sidekick
approach me slowly, each holding a drink. I finished off my third
glass of champagne and peeled my eyes, looking for a roaming waiter
carrying a tray of filled glasses. Nothing.

"Max. I'm glad I caught you.
There's someone I want to introduce you to," Ken said, as he
finally arrived in front of me. He introduced the man as Seth
Cohen, a fellow venture capitalist, as if we were all part of some
weird fraternity. We shook hands as I tried to grasp why Ken had
made it a point to introduce me to him. "Seth's out in
California."

"So, what brings you to New York
this time of the year? I'd be heading out your way if I had my
druthers."

"Business. It's always business
dragging me to New York."

"Even if that means braving the
snow, huh?"

Seth laughed.

We joked a little bit about the differences between
New York and California. Always a fascinating topic of
conversation. While we were talking, Ken had managed to disappear.
I was now stuck with Seth. At least until Imogen reappeared. She
had a habit of saving me.

"So, you up in Silicon
Valley?"

"What gave you that idea?" Seth
waited a moment for his bad joke to settle in. "Actually, yes. You
know it?"

"I've been out there a bunch of
times."

"I love it there. I love it so
much that I borrowed the Silicon part for my company's name:
Silicon City Ventures."

"Clever." Not my favorite way to
name a company, but it was not mine so, really, who
cared?

"Here, let me see if I have a card
on me." Seth searched his front pockets first. Nothing. He then
tried the inside lining of his suit jacket. No cards there either.
"I'll find one, just give me a sec." He continued to frisk himself
until he finally resigned himself to pulling out his wallet. He
reached around and then dipped a hand into his left back pocket,
and emerged with a brown Gucci leather wallet. He opened it and, lo
and behold, there was the elusive card.

"Thanks." He handed it to me and I
immediately put it into my pocket without looking at it, as was my
usual custom. I looked around for Imogen. She wasn't anywhere in my
line of sight. This conversation was bound to go on forever.
Suddenly, Seth's demeanor changed. His face tensed and his
shoulders looked like they were about ready to swallow his neck. He
leaned over to me and started to speak as if we were in the middle
of a black market transaction.

"Can I ask you something?" Seth's
voice dropped to a whisper. He moved a little closer to me,
invading my personal space. "What the hell happened to
Ted?"

"Did you know him?"

"I should say so! I've been
talking to Ted for months. BMC have been making overtures about
acquiring my company, and Ted had been their point
person."

"Good old Ted."

"Ted wasn't the problem. I told
them I didn't want any part of it."

"Why not? It's none of my
business, really, but selling out would make you a
fortune."

"It's simple. I'm not interested.
I've got enough money. They don't care about the portfolio. All
they care about is the technology. I've got some patents. Some that
they have a vested interest in."

Seth seemed a little more relaxed
now that we'd broached the subject. His shoulders were back below
Adam's apple level.

"So, tell them to take a
hike."

"That's what I've been telling
them—well, telling Ted, and I think he was listening. But it's a
little more complicated than that. We've got sort of a
relationship. With one of the patents, and, well… Anyway, last time
we chatted he said he had straightened them out."

That was odd. Yes, Seth was an odd guy, but this
conversation was odd in a different sort of way. Why change the
subject? Why even have this conversation with me in the first
place? Certainly, I was the wrong guy to be sounding off against.
What did I care about Seth?

"Straightened who out?"

"Mike and Ken. Then Ted goes and
gets murdered. And now Ken and Mike have started in again." Seth's
anxiety level was rising again. He nervously took a sip of his
wine. "It's all too much to digest. Ted's murder seems a little too
convenient to be a coincidence. I'm scared." He finished his glass
of wine in one gulp.

"What are you scared of? You think
if you don't go along with them you're going to wind up dead?" I
said.

Seth leaned in close, looked me
dead in my eyes then whispered with conviction and Pinot breath,
"Yes."

Two days later, back at my office, I received an odd
email. The sender was a random email address with an equally odd
name. The subject was Ted Baxter.

From: Delator

Subject: Ted Baxter

To: Max Slade

You're on the right
track.

Delator

I read the email, reread the email, called Imogen
into my office to read the email, questioned why I was rereading a
five-word email over and over, and then we both sat there
confused.

"What the hell is this? Who would
send this?" Those were Ginny's first questions. Mine were as
follows: Who had my email address? Who knew that we were looking
into Ted's murder? How did this person know that we were looking
into Ted's murder? Why would they then contact me? Why contact me
over email instead of in person? Were we in danger?

I asked Ginny who she thought knew
about us playing detective. She sat back in the Aeron chair,
crossed her legs, revealing more thigh as her black skirt rose a
bit, while she lazily chewed on the top of a pen. "Well, we know
Kitty knows." Imogen was using the pen as a pointer to accentuate
her thoughts to the air. "She already had spilled the beans about
that at your house. She also wouldn't play email games. She would
just call or text or, perish the thought, show up. So I think we
can rule her out."

"Yes, fair point. She is quite a
character. Do you think Mike knows?" I asked, since her analysis of
Kitty was spot on.

"John might have leaked that info
when he met with Mike. Or Mike has a kernel of an idea that we're
onto him. Or maybe Kitty told Mike. Especially if they're in
cahoots. But if they're having an affair, well, that wouldn't make
any sense."

I interrupted Ginny, remembering
our dinner the other night with Mike. "I don't think I told you
this, but Mike did make a comment about me when I brought up Ted.
He thought it was a little too convenient that we reconnected after
Ted's death. I think he was fishing for some information, but we
never quite got there."

"I'm not sure that he believes
you're involved in any sort of investigation."

Maybe I was overthinking it.

"I guess you're right, my
dear."

Ginny slipped off her shoe and started rubbing her
foot against my shin.

"What are you doing?"

Her foot had maneuvered itself to my pant leg
opening and was now working its way up my bare right calf. She
looked at me curiously as she moved the pen top across her bottom
lip. I ignored her games and continued with my analysis.

"What about Clarke or the Seth
guy?"

It was clear that Imogen had
checked out of this conversation. The pant leg was now pushed up
above my knee and rapidly rising. Her foot was quite dexterous.
Regardless, I forged on. "Maybe they have something to—" Her foot
now left the pant leg and was veering dangerously close to my
slacks zipper. "Umm, I was saying… You know what? Forget it." I
stood up, walked around the desk, grabbed Ginny's chair by the
arms, and pressed my lips against hers. The email could
wait.

Later that night I sat in my brown
leather club chair, admiring my bookshelf that lined the entire
wall of my living room. Jabber was snuggled up next to the
fireplace, although there was no wood in it and it was not lit. I
was sipping on a scotch, legs crossed, deep in thought about
nothing in particular, my eyes tracing the bookshelf book by book
until they reached the bay window. My eyes drifted toward the
billionaire's brownstone. Unfocused, I peered through the window,
admiring the colors that melded together from the priceless
masterpieces mixed with the yellow glow of his parlor.

I didn't know if it was the
alcohol or the colors of the masterpieces that sat in my blurry
gaze, but something hit me. Rich people have rich tastes. They
always want more. Always looking for something better. Something to
add to their collections. Something that excites them.
Motive.

My eyes continued their journey to the scene below.
The snow had covered all of the trees and lampposts that lined the
street. Undisturbed white mounds piled on top of the stoops,
handrails, and steps of the multimillion-dollar dwellings.

Contrasted against this picturesque setting was the
road below, bleeding brown snow. Cars and taxis sped by, throwing
slush in their tracks.

"What are you doing, Max?" Imogen
asked, appearing from the kitchen.

"Just admiring the
city."

"It is pretty, isn't it?" Ginny
said as she strolled over to the bar. She began fixing herself a
drink.

"And thinking about
Kitty."

"That dreadful woman
again!"

"Not like that," I nonchalantly
corrected Imogen. I loved that Ginny got jealous of Kitty. As if
there was anything to get jealous about. "I was thinking that she
might not be all that she appears to be. Maybe she's the one who's
playing games with us."

"Why would she bother? She's
already enough of a nuisance. Why play games when she can just come
out and tell us whatever she wants to say?"

"I agree, but she's a liar. We
know that much. It also feels like Kitty sent that email. She's the
only one who knows we are involved besides Carrington. That is
what's nagging at me. It's not like we've sat anyone down and
questioned them. I just can't figure out why she would do such a
thing."

"She could have sent it, I guess."
Imogen was not convinced. "But if she did send it, it would be
inconsistent with her previous behavior. And, more importantly, I
don't think that she's that clever."

"I wouldn't underestimate her, my
dear."

"I'm not underestimating her. I'm
just not convinced."

Imogen walked over with her scotch and soda then
seated herself on the couch. She took a sip and looked out of the
window. She started to say something, but before any sound emerged
from her lips she stopped and raised her glass. She took another
sip of her drink and waited for me to speak.

I decided to shift gears. "I still
can't help thinking how young Ted was. It's upsetting. He wasn't
much older than I am. It's never the right time to go, but
forty-two seems so young. He had so much life left to live. New
chapters to be written, new experiences to be had."

"A couple of weeks ago you told me
forty was old," she said.

"I don't know what forty is
anymore. I do know that I want to see a lot more birthdays. More
snow on the trees, sunsets, hazy summer afternoons…"

"Dutch, let's not bring the
evening down. I'm quite enjoying my drink," Ginny said.

"What?"

"Snap out of it."

I lowered my glass after taking a
contemplative sip. "Life is fleeting."

"So is this conversation." She
rose to her feet and took the few steps over to my chair. "Up!
Let's go." She pulled my arm.

"Hey! Don't spill my
drink."

"Dutch, get your arse out of that
bloody chair before I give it a swift kick."