On top of that, she was supposed to meet her mother and stepfather for a little cocktail party fund-raiser at the Four Seasons immediately after work. As a result, she was dressed for the occasion in a pale gray suede skirt and belted jacket with matching heels. She was about to head for the stairwell and jog up two flights in high heels and a narrow skirt, when the elevator finally arrived.
MACK WAS STANDING at the chalkboard holding a clipboard in his left hand, writing a new list of possible suspects on the board, when Sam hurried into his office at 8:08.
The meeting hadn’t begun yet, and Shrader and Womack were standing near the chairs in front of Mack’s desk, drinking coffee. Shrader trumpeted the news of Sam’s arrival in a way that made her long to strangle him. “My God, Littleton!” he exclaimed, “is that really you? Jeez!” He elbowed Womack. “Have you ever seen a better pair of legs than Littleton’s got?”
“I’d have to see a little more of them before I could be sure,” Womack said with an exaggerated leer. “How ’bout it, Littleton?”
Sam rolled her eyes at him and walked over to her usual chair, the one closest to the chalkboard on the end. Unfortunately, Shrader was truly fascinated by the “new her.”
“So what’s the occasion?” he demanded. “You got a hot date for lunch?”
“No, for cocktails after work,” Sam replied distractedly. She hated feeling awkward, and she wished Mack would say something.
He did, and it was in a very cool, brusque tone. “You’re late, Littleton,” he said, as he continued to write on the board.
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do it again.”
That was unjust and pushing it too far. Sam had been coming in early, leaving late, and working weekends for weeks. She felt warm color rush up her cheeks, and unfortunately, Shrader not only saw it, he thought it was attractive, and remarked upon it, too. “It’s not just the way you’re dressed, Littleton. There’s something different about you this morning. You got a . . . I dunno . . . a glow.”
Too embarrassed and frustrated to think ahead, Sam retaliated against Mack’s second warning about being late. “I’m just more relaxed today than usual,” she told Shrader lightly. “Last night, I had an all-over body massage.”
Mack’s chalk snapped.
Sam bit back a satisfied grin as she bent down to pick up the broken piece that had rolled across the floor near her feet. At that moment, Mack turned around and walked toward her. Holding the piece of chalk in her fingers, Sam looked up at him from beneath her lashes and slowly stood up.
He held out his hand, his expression impassive, but she saw the warning in his eyes, and something else . . . something like accusation. She dropped the chalk on his palm—the same palm that had shoved beneath her bra last night and caressed her breasts. His long fingers closed on the chalk—the same fingers that had . . .
Sam cast that thought aside and watched him return to writing on the board. He was wearing a black knit shirt that outlined his broad shoulders and tapered waist, and Sam’s thoughts promptly drifted to the way his bunched muscles felt beneath her fingertips. He was so beautiful . . .
She sat down again and made herself chat with Shrader and Womack, who were leaning against McCord’s desk.
Dusting chalk from his hands, McCord turned abruptly and said, “Valente is off the suspect list permanently.”
“What?” Womack exclaimed, straightening.
“Why?” Shrader demanded.
“I can’t tell you the reason because it involves some departmental issues that I need to deal with separately, later. For now, I want you to accept my word that I have sufficient reason to disqualify him completely as a suspect. If either of you have a problem with that, say it now.”
Shrader and Womack hesitated only a second; then Womack shook his head and Shrader said, “No problem. It’s okay by me, if it’s okay by you.” Sam had known they wouldn’t hesitate to take McCord’s word: they were both as impressed by him as she was.
“Next,” McCord said implacably, “I want it understood that no one outside this room is to know we’re disqualifying Valente. No one,” he repeated.
Shrader and Womack both nodded.
He glanced at Sam then, but it was merely a formality, and she nodded, too.
“Can I just ask one question—?” Shrader said. “Does the decision to take Valente off the list have anything to do with what Littleton learned when she chased him down yesterday?”
McCord shook his head. “No, but she can fill you in later on what she discovered. Right now, we’ve got a killer on the loose.” He glanced toward the names on the chalkboard. “Littleton has said all along that she thinks a woman is the one who washed those wineglasses out—obviously in the snow, since the cabin had no running water—and then put them carefully in the sink, where they’d be less likely to get broken.
“Given Manning’s love of the ladies, that theory fits. If so, then the missing sleeping bag could indicate he had sexual intercourse with someone who knew enough about police forensics to know we’d check that sleeping bag for traces of hair and fluids.”
“Anybody who’s ever watched a couple episodes of Law and Order knows that,” Shrader pointed out.
“Exactly. And from any similar movie or television program, the killer would have learned that we’d check Manning’s hands for powder residue, so she—or he—fired one of the shots with Manning’s hand wrapped around the butt of the weapon.”
Pausing, McCord tipped his head to the list of names on the board. “Let’s start with the women we know of who Manning came into contact with through his wife, since he had a partiality for screwing her friends and acquaintances. You’ve checked out their alibis but not as thoroughly as we would have if we hadn’t been so sure Valente was our man.”
Shrader and Womack settled into their usual chairs, and Sam slid hers back a little so they could see past her to the board. Normally these meetings in Mack’s office were intense and fast-paced, but disqualifying Valente as a suspect left everyone without a focus, and the atmosphere in the room became noticeably desultory. Not only were they now without a suspect, they also had to come to terms with the unexpected reality of having dedicated enormous energy and time to a “sure thing” that wasn’t one.
“What about Leigh Manning?” Shrader said finally. “She’s not on the board.”
For the first time, McCord’s gaze shifted specifically to Sam, but the smile twisting the corner of his mouth was one of impersonal amusement. “I think Littleton has been right all along about Leigh Manning’s innocence. I want to talk to Mrs. Manning myself today, but based on what Littleton learned from Valente in the limo yesterday, it’s reasonable to believe Mrs. Manning had no idea that her old friend ‘Falco Nipote’ was actually Michael Valente until after her husband died.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Womack said bluntly.
Instead of impatiently telling Womack to take his word on it, McCord reversed his earlier decision and asked Sam to relate to them what she’d learned from Valente yesterday. Sam admired him for that. Mack was not only an extraordinary team leader, he was an all-out, full-fledged team member who understood when his teammates couldn’t go forward without more background.
“That makes a lot of sense,” Shrader said when Sam finished her tale about the note they’d confiscated. “I mean, why would a guy sign ‘nephew’ and ‘Falco’ on a note that already had his name printed on the top of the paper?”
“It also explains why we couldn’t connect him with Leigh Manning before the murder, no matter how hard we tried,” McCord said. “They weren’t connected. If you have any doubts about why she didn’t recognize him at her party, have a look at his mug shot when he was busted on the manslaughter charge. He had a dark beard. Hell, I wouldn’t have recognized him.”
Sam thought of Valente’s voice in the limo, the smooth rich timbre of his baritone and McCord noticed her frown. “Are you disagreeing?” he asked her dubiously.
r /> “No,” Sam said emphatically as she reached behind her nape to tighten the wide silver clip holding her hair back. “I saw that old photograph in Valente’s file. The only thing Leigh Manning could have recognized when she met him at her party was his voice. Valente has the most amazing voice. It’s very deep and very mellow—”
Womack slapped his knee. “I knew it! I told you—Littleton has a thing for Valente. C’mon, Littleton, come clean—is your heavy date tonight with Valente? We won’t tell a soul,” he lied. “You can trust us,” he lied again, oblivious to McCord’s clenching jaw.
Sam was losing patience. She looked at Womack in bewildered disgust and said, “My ‘date’ is with my stepfather and mother! Now, knock it off, will you?”
“What’s your stepfather do, anyway?” Shrader asked suddenly.
Unaware of the almost imperceptible softening in McCord’s gaze when she mentioned the identity of her “date,” Sam reached for a spare tablet lying on McCord’s desk and took a pencil out of her purse. “He works for the government and lives off the taxpayers just like we do.”
“Can we get back to business?” McCord said, but he sounded less curt than he had before, and several seconds later, Sam belatedly realized that he might have assumed she was all dressed up to go out with another man. Mack was a detective who would instinctively look for other, subtler, reasons for the things people did—which could have meant he wondered if she’d gotten dressed up and mentioned a drinks date just to tease him, keep him off balance, and make the waiting harder.
Shoving those thoughts aside, she looked up at the chalkboard as McCord pointed to the first name on it and said, “What about Jane Sebring, the costar? She said she went home and went to bed, then she got up later, and watched a movie on television. How thoroughly did you check out her alibi?” he asked Shrader and Womack.
“Her doorman confirmed that she returned to the building late in the afternoon, after the matinee,” Womack said. “Her car service confirmed her ride from the theater to her apartment building at that time. That’s not saying, however, that she didn’t sneak out the back way later, rent a car or something, and drive herself to the mountains.”
“Start checking out the car rental companies, and also check her credit card receipts and her LUDS.”
Shrader nodded. “I’ll check the other car services, too—”
Womack guffawed. “What—like she had a chauffeur drive her into the mountains, and wait for her, while she trotted down to the cabin and blew Manning away?”
Shrader actually blushed. His big, ferocious-looking face took on a hangdog expression, and he stared at his lap, shaking his head in disbelief. “I realized before I finished the sentence that couldn’t have happened.”
“Let’s move on,” McCord said, but a smile was tugging at his lips at Shrader’s rare lapse into bad logic. “What about Trish Lefkowitz, the publicist?”
“Her alibi holds water,” Womack said.
“Too bad,” McCord said dryly, drawing a line through her name. “Trish has the balls to shoot a guy in the head and remember to clean up the dishes in the kitchen afterward.”
“You talking from personal knowledge, Lieutenant?” Shrader asked.
Sam was glad he asked that question, but she kept her expression perfectly bland as she waited for McCord to reply. His reply was a short laugh and an eloquent shudder. “No.”
Sam believed him. She just wished she hadn’t made that suggestive wisecrack about having had a massage last night. She was not only new at being in love, she was completely unprepared to handle that earthshaking experience with someone she worked for and with.
She’d made an agreement with Mack about how they were going to go on until the Manning case was over, and she’d broken it within minutes after walking into his office. And what made that much worse was that she was truly touched by his reasons for wanting the agreement. Unfortunately, she didn’t think Mack would let her default pass without comment, which was why she had every intention of making a beeline out of his office the moment this meeting concluded.
“What about Sybil Haywood, the astrologer?” Mack asked. “She’s attractive enough to interest Manning.”
“What a kook!” Shrader said, slapping his knee for emphasis. “Before she’d talk to me when I got there, I had to give her my ‘birth data’; then she ran some sort of computer program on my planets or some damned thing. She called it my ‘astrological chart.’ ”
“What about it?” McCord asked, referring to her alibi.
Shrader misunderstood and thought he was asking about the astrological chart. “She said a young female who is close to me, but not a family member, is in grave danger, but could not be saved. She said I should remember that this life is only a stopping place to the next one, and we’ll be together again.”
“Did she have an alibi and was it solid?” McCord asked derisively.
“Yes to both questions. I just remembered something the Haywood woman told me,” Shrader added as McCord turned to draw a line through Haywood’s name. “I blew it off before, but she said that on the night of the party, Leigh Manning recruited her to entertain Valente. Haywood said Mrs. Manning was upset that he’d been invited—you know, because of his lousy reputation.”
McCord nodded. “Which further substantiates the idea that Leigh Manning didn’t know who Valente really was that night.” He glanced at the next name on the chalkboard. “What about Theta Berenson? She’s the artist.”
“She’s got an alibi and it checks out,” Shrader said. “Anyway, Manning wouldn’t have laid a hockey stick on her, let alone a hand. If being ugly was a crime, they’d be hunting that woman down with helicopters and bloodhounds.”
“Shrader,” McCord said with a reluctant smile, turning to mark off her name, too, “I hate to be the first to tell you this, but you’re not exactly a Chippendales dancer, yourself.”
Sam looked at her tablet to hide her smile. She looked up again as McCord folded his arms across his chest and turned back to the chalkboard, looking at the names left there.
“What about Claire Straight?” he asked.
“She’s got a sound alibi,” Womack said. “And she hates men. Her husband dumped her for a sweet, young thing half his age, and the woman is obsessed. If you ask me, she’s turning into a lesbian over this divorce.”
“Can that happen?” Shrader asked, looking to Sam for an answer. “Do you think a formerly heterosexual woman can turn into a lesbian because a man cheated on her?”
Unaware that McCord had glanced over his shoulder, Sam leaned forward, smiled widely at Shrader, and said, “Yes, definitely. That’s how it happened to me.”
She leaned back suddenly, turned her head, and caught McCord looking at her. He had a look of pained laughter on his face; then he shook his head slightly and turned back to the chalkboard. Sam was a detective, too—she noticed that odd little shake of his head, and she identified it. It was the same thing she’d done a few moments before, trying to concentrate on work at hand instead of him.
“Erin Gillroy, Manning’s secretary,” Mack said, tapping the chalk next to that name.
“Didn’t ask her for an alibi,’ Womack admitted. “Did you, Littleton?”
“No. I should have, though. At the time, I didn’t think she was a candidate. I still don’t, but you never know.”
“Handle that, Womack,” McCord said, then he pointed to the new name on the chalkboard. “Okay, here’s the last woman on today’s list: Sheila Winters.”
“The shrink?” Shrader wrinkled his nose. “Jeez, can you imagine making love to a shrink while she analyzes the underlying meaning of your every groan?”
“Can we knock off the suggestive commentary and sexual references,” Mack said testily. “What the hell is going on in here this morning?”
Shrader and Womack exchanged a startled look. McCord had made a comment himself about Trish Lefkowitz. Law enforcement was a tough, male-dominated domain, and nothing was taboo among the “bo
ys.” As long as they didn’t aim it at Sam, they were pretty much free to carry on even under the department’s regulations.
“Littleton and I interviewed Dr. Winters,” Mack continued, “but not as a potential suspect, so we didn’t ask for an alibi. She’s blond and attractive, and Manning liked attractive blondes. She’s a long shot, in my opinion, but we’ll pay her another visit. That brings us to the three males on the list,” he concluded. “The first name is George Sokoloff, the architect. Littleton checked out his alibi, and it’s believable but not one we can completely substantiate.”
“Motive?” Womack questioned.
McCord was quiet, thinking. “We’ll have to check out his claims, but if he’s telling the truth, he was the real talent behind several of Manning’s successful projects. Manning had promised him full credit and major responsibility for the Crescent Plaza project. Maybe Manning told him he wasn’t going to deliver on those promises.”
Pointing to the last two names, Mack said, “That brings us to Jason Solomon, and his boyfriend, Eric Ingram.”
“They’re each other’s alibi,” Womack said; then he belatedly recounted what they’d learned about the two hundred thousand dollars cash Manning had used to buy a share in Solomon’s play.
“Let’s keep digging there,” Mack said. “I think the path to our killer is probably going to be paved with greenbacks. We need to find out where the hell Manning was getting his hands on enough illegal cash to not only cover his additional office and living expenses, but buy cars for himself, and a share in a Broadway play, to name just the few items we already know of. Based on the way he was spending it, he seemed to be confident there was plenty more coming.”
Womack took a sip of his cold coffee, then put the cup back on the desk. “Maybe he was peddling drugs?”