Killer Look (19 page)

I thought of Hal Savage's cufflinks with the ruby-red eyes. “What color eye does this button have?” I asked, reaching for it.

“Black eyes, Ms. Cooper,” the second saleswoman said. “All the animal prints had some black in their designs—leopards, zebras, tigers. So Mr. Savage used black plastic—it was supposed to look like crystal—for the eyes on this one collection. And he had a series of reverse buttons made, too.”

“Reverse?”

“Yes, if the cuffs of the silk blouses had gold-tone buttons on the cuffs, with black eyes, Savage sprung for black onyx buttons for the opening of the garment, with little gold dots for eyes.”

She reached into the cardboard box and came out with the black onyx buttons. “Big splurge for WolfWear,” she joked.

“I'd certainly like to take two of these gold ones, that match my broken button,” I said. “And two of the onyx, please.”

“The metal ones with black eyes are forty dollars each.”

“Forty? They're useless old buttons.”

She laughed. “You're the second one in this week. Must be a rush on old Mr. Savage because of the show at the Costume Institute.”

“So you've gone and raised the price on me, haven't you?” I said, laughing along with her.

“Just a bit. You can have them for thirty. But the onyx are seventy-five dollars apiece. I can't do any better for you on those.”

“Very, very tender buttons, indeed.”

I gave the woman my credit card and waited while she wrapped the onyx fastenings in a little cloth bag, separate from the metal ones.

“Tell me, who's my competition?” I asked. “Who else has a broken button on her wild animal? My friend might be wearing her blouse next week.”

“She won't want to see herself coming and going, will she?”

“Certainly not. Maybe your other customer—the woman who bought the other button—she works at the Savage company?”

“Your first mistake is it's not a ‘she,' Ms. Cooper. I sold the button—just one of the gold-tone ones—to a man. A very polite man who came in the other day.”

“A man? Did he say why he wanted it?”

“A sale is a sale. I don't ask questions. And he paid cash for it, so I can't even help you with a credit-card receipt.”

“Older than I am?” I asked, thinking of Hal Savage.

“More or less your age. Could be younger.”

“Can you describe him at all?”

“Nice-looking fellow. He was wearing a navy-blue jacket—sort of a ski jacket—with the collar up against the weather. Sunglasses and a baseball cap snug on his head. Nothing unusual, but then I couldn't see much of him.”

Reed Savage? Or someone else who worked for the company?

“Do you happen to know what day it was?”

She thought for a minute. “I was off yesterday. Let me see. It must have been Wednesday morning. First thing, shortly after the shop opened.”

I don't think Reed Savage had even arrived from London then. But it was certainly after Wolf Savage had died.

“You should know the same man also bought a dozen gold military-style buttons from the Ralph Lauren collection of that same year,” she said. “Could be a collector, Ms. Cooper. You just never know.”

“I guess it could be as simple an explanation as that.” I didn't believe it for a minute.

“I mean, it's not like that little piece of metal—with an ear, without an ear—it's not like it's going to help Wolf Savage one iota now that he's
dead.”

It was ten thirty when I tried to call Mike. I thought the autopsy would have been wrapped up by this time.

I hailed a taxi and directed the driver to Seventh Avenue, then I dialed Joan Stafford's home number in DC.

“Can you talk?” I asked.

“Back up a minute. How are you, my friend? Have you readjusted to city life?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“What does Mike think?”

“Let's just say it's delicate, okay?”

“Aha! Then Mike might be back on the open market soon.”

Joan was as clever and funny as she was smart. She could make me laugh at everything about myself, and about most other situations. She was an accomplished playwright, but longed more than anything else to help Mike solve a case.

“Dish with me,” she said. “Wolf Savage was
murdered
?”

“Looks that way.”

“Don't you know? I saw Mike's picture in the paper at the press conference,” Joan said. “Don't hold out on me.”

“I've got nothing to tell yet. Remember, I'm on leave?”

“But you share a bed with the world's hottest detective, Alex. You must have your ways.”

“I may be slipping, Joanie. I have no information for you.”

“When my first play debuted in London ages ago,” Joan said, “Reed Savage came to the opening-night party. He's divine. I could have gone for him but he had the cutest wife in tow. Then I heard he split from her. I think he sort of liked me.”

“Every man alive likes you,” I said. “Most especially your husband.”

As deep as Joan's literary knowledge was, she also had an encyclopedic memory for anyone who had ever been in the society columns. She had attended their balls, dated their brothers, been at their premieres, knew their net worths, remembered their sins, and rarely forgave them.

“Think Savage,” I said. “Think of the time we were at that benefit and some of his gowns were being auctioned.”

“We must have been tipsy. You bought one and I remember buying two. I swear the tags are still on them.”

“Blood oath. You cannot tell this to Mike or he'll have my head, Joanie.”

“Go on.”

“I think I can wangle my way into the Savage fashion show on Monday night.”

“At the Met? Temple of Dendur? You must take me with you. I'll fly up—”

“Joanie, Joanie. Big fat
no
. I'm talking about sneaking in somehow. There is so much intrigue within the family, within the company, that I just think it pays to be under that roof with all the drama inherent in the situation.”

“I thought you didn't know anything about the case.”

“I don't. But what a great way to try to find out,” I said. “The problem is I only have one fancy Savage gown.”

The ladies who graced the rows of seats at the big shows always wore their best looks of the designers' past seasons. Saint Laurent and Versace and Michael Kors boasted a lineup of high-end customers who pulled out all their classics. I couldn't go to a Savage extravaganza wearing de la Renta. It just isn't done.

“Wear it, Alexandra. You have to wear it.”

“Do you remember the one I bought?”

“I'm thinking white and flowy, right? Am I close?”

“It's a toga, Joanie. That long white gown with the gold braiding.”

“
Stop!
Don't even think about it. It was almost comical when you tried it on, Alex. You looked like the handmaiden to Elizabeth Taylor when she gave Cleopatra the asp in that endless movie,” Joan said. “Bad idea. Fashion mistake in the first degree. Not your look.”

“Damn. That's why I was calling. I have to wear Savage.”

“But not a white toga, and not in the middle of November. The fashion police will arrest you,” Joan said. “You'll have to wear one of mine.”

“Are they in DC with you?”

“No, they're at my mother's, in the guest-room closet. She'll be so happy to see you. I bet she'll lend you her pearls, too. She's got a fortune in eight-millimeter pearls that you can wrap around your neck two or three times. No one will notice the dress.”

“What are they like?” I asked. “I'm tempted.”

“One is too summery, too floral. The one I have in mind is Wolf's take on the
Downton Abbey
period. I just never had the occasion to wear it.”

“Tell me, am I an upstairs member of the family or a downstairs kitchen maid?”

“Upstairs. Very racy. Kind of flapperish. It's black silk with a dropped waist. Short and sexy. Think about it, Alex. If you stop at that store on Second Avenue and pick up one of those Lady Mary Crawley black, cropped wigs and put on a glittery headband, no one—I mean no one—will recognize you.”

I laughed. “You are so melodramatic, Joan.”

“But I'm not wrong. You'll be deeply undercover. You could even fool Mike if you wear some dress style that's against type, and with dark hair. To him, you'll always be ‘blondie.'”

“This has real possibilities, Joan. I may drop in on your mother tomorrow.”

“I should come to town to help you dress.”

“Stay put.”

“But if you solve the crime, do I get credit?”

“An honorary gold shield, I promise,” I said. “Gotta go.”

The cab stopped in front of 530 Seventh Avenue. I paid the fare and jumped out, dodging the usual foot traffic of men wheeling hand trucks and assistants dashing up and down the avenue with patterns and samples and fabrics of every kind.

I stood in the lobby and tried Mike's phone again. This time it went to voicemail. “Call me. I've got an idea.”

I thought about waiting till he returned the call, but I always preferred the element of surprise. It was after eleven
A.M
. and I knew the autopsy wouldn't have taken this long.

I pressed the elevator to go to the WolfWear offices on the twenty-eighth floor. I was anxious to see if Mike and Mercer were already at interviews with Reed and Hal.

The reception area was packed with even more flower arrangements than the day before. I could barely see the top of the head of the woman behind the desk.

“Good morning,” I said. “I'm looking for two gentlemen who are supposed to be meeting here this morning.”

“Who are they?”

“Mr. Chapman and Mr. Wallace,” I said.

“Oh, the detectives,” she said, getting up from her desk to walk me to the hallway door. “They're in Miss Lily's office.”

“Lily Savitsky? She didn't have an office here yesterday.”

The receptionist smiled at me and opened the door. “Well, she certainly does
now.”

“Alex,” Lily said, “I didn't know you were coming. You didn't miss much—we're just getting started.”

Mike was out of his chair and into my face. “What's the part of ‘stay home' that you don't understand?”

“I honestly have to thank you,” Lily said. “It's because of you that my father's body was autopsied this morning.”

“It's really these guys—” I started to say.

“Could you please give us five minutes in here, Lily?” Mike said. “I need a little time with Alex.”

“Sure.” Lily squeezed my hand as she walked past me and left the three of us alone.

There was nothing to mark the office as her own. It was an empty room with an empty desk and equally empty shelves. It looked like it was her first day on the job.

“If you don't care about protecting your own reputation,” Mike said, “the least you can do is show a little respect for mine. Who do you think you are? Miss Marple? Stumbling over poisonous
mushrooms in the vicarage? Just nosing around in other peoples' business like you're going to solve a crime?”

“Whoa, Detective Chapman. Would there have been any autopsy if not for me? You could have been so embarrassed if Wolf Savage had been cremated by his relatives and
then
you got DNA results matching him to his daughter.”

“Give her some props, Chapman,” Mercer said.

“I tried calling but you didn't answer me,” I said.

“What have you got?”

I took the small pouch holding two envelopes out of my pocket. “Buttons.”

“Swell. Now what?”

I turned my back to Mike and talked to Mercer. “Remember when we were in the Silver Needle Hotel the other night, and I found a glittery little piece of metal in the carpet?”

“Yeah.”

“A button. Or at least a piece of a button.”

“Could have been there for ages,” Mike said.

“But it wasn't,” I said. “So I took it to a button store today to see if I could match it to anything.”

“And I take it you did,” Mercer said.

“Here's what I got,” I said, placing the two different pieces on the desk. “The broken piece is from a Wolf Savage garment. That's for certain.”

“It was in Wolf Savage's row of suites,” Mike said, behind my back but clued into the conversation. “I'd expect it to be from his line.”

“Do you have the list of the clothes that were on the hand truck when his body was found?” I asked.

“Sure, there's an inventory. And I've also got a photograph.”

“Look through them both and see whether there's any item of clothing that's got an animal pattern on it.”

“I've got the photo right here,” Mike said, opening the app on his phone. “Like cats and dogs? Is that what I'm looking for?”

“Like jungle. Wild animals.”

“Not that I can see. Everything on the rack is in light colors. No sign of a safari.”

“I didn't think so. The clothes I saw when we were there were all pastel. A spring palette.”

“What does that tell you?” Mike asked.

“That the button you vouchered was broken in a struggle,” I said. “And that it didn't fall off something from the hand truck. Someone must have been wearing it.

I pulled up the photo of the gold-tone object I had spotted in the carpet. I put it on the desktop beside one of the buttons I had just purchased.

Mercer leaned in. “Good possibility, Alex. The devil's in the details,” he said. “It's a woman's blouse you're looking for, right?”

“WolfWear from the nineties.”

“That puts a woman at the death scene,” he said. “Or a cross-dresser.”

“Or someone trying to frame a woman,” I said.

“What if there was a struggle when someone—or more than one person—tried to put the bag over Wolf's head?” Mercer asked. “Could be he grabbed a sleeve or an arm.”

Mike picked up the new button and twisted it with his fingers.

“Be gentle—that little devil cost me thirty bucks,” I said. “And just in case you think it isn't relevant, the morning after Wolf Savage was killed, some guy walked into the same shop and bought another one of these.”

Mike looked at me and winked. “Now you're talking. Mind if I take this pouch along for safekeeping?”

“All yours, Detective,” I said. “Okay, will you please tell me
why Lily Savitsky is here this morning, and what the autopsy proved?”

“The postmortem was just what Dr. Parker expected with a helium inhalation death. Nothing remarkable to observe,” Mike said. “But just as importantly, there was absolutely no sign of disease. That alone justifies the procedure.”

“The lungs?”

“Clean as a whistle. The blotches that presented as aspiration pneumonia when Savage was at the Mayo Clinic were completely resolved. Probably a short course of antibiotics.”

“So as far as the man's medical prognosis,” I said, “Wolf Savage had no terminal illness? Lily was right about that?”

“She was right. Maybe he was sick and tired of the relatives around him, pawing at him all the time,” Mercer said, “but he certainly was not sick.”

“The toxicology will also be a useful piece of this, won't it?” I asked.

“Of course it will,” Mike said. “But you know that can take four to six weeks.”

Television shows had such inaccurate portrayals of postmortem tox results, making the reports available to the medical examiner at lightning speed. But the real-life examinations were painstaking and complicated. It was expected that Savage's blood would have traces of oxycodone in it, based on the pill bottle that was found at the scene, and the news of his prior addiction that Tiz Bolt had provided to me. But the lab would also look to see whether the concentration of the drug was in the toxic or lethal range, and, as usual, check to determine whether any other substances were mixed with it. For toxicologists, there is always a new drug of choice.

“What brought Lily to her father's office today?” I asked. “I thought she hadn't been able to penetrate the glass ceilings and doors.”

“Looks like the family members regrouped after meeting with the lawyer yesterday,” Mike said.

“Why? What did the will say?”

“We were just getting into that with her,” Mercer said.

“Did her father include her in his estate?”

“He did,” Mike said. “She doesn't get as much as Reed, but she's very relieved.”

“I'm happy for her. Maybe it'll help her find a way to participate in the business,” I said. “I guess that's why she's here today.”

“The reason Lily's here today, Coop, is because each one of these Savages is trying to keep an eye on the others.”

“Why?”

“Wolf Savage certainly knew he had a daughter named Tanya Root, even if no one else in the family did.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he went the distance and disinherited her.”

“Damn. He had to name her in order to do that,” I said.

“Well, he did,” Mike said. “Is that what it takes?”

I was trying to remember my law-school course in trusts and estates. Just the omission of a child in a will isn't enough to cut her out of the estate.

“To hold up in court, the child must be specifically named in the document. The man had to state that it was his intention to disinherit her,” I said. “Otherwise, she could have come along and make a claim for a portion of the estate after her father's death, arguing that it was just an accidental oversight.”

“That figures,” Mike said. “Well, Tanya Root is most specifically disinherited in this document. And none of these relatives even knew she existed.”

“Are you bringing Lily back in to continue your conversation with her?” I asked.

“Just as soon as you hit the road.”

“Oh, I'll go,” I said, with one hand on the doorknob, “the moment you assure me you're up to snuff on your Surrogate's Court trivia.”

“Look, Coop,” Mike said. “Don't play games with me.”

“Is the name Wolf Savage anywhere in the will?” I asked.

“Lily doesn't have a copy yet. I figure I can get one when it's filed with the Surrogate's Court,” Mike said.

“When David Jones died earlier this year—leaving a one-hundred-million-dollar estate—the media went crazy trying to get their hands on the document, with no success,” I said. “As I'm sure they'll do in this case—maybe before you get there.”

“Why did the media care? Who was Jones?”

“We all knew him better as David Bowie, but he never changed his birth name—Jones—legally. Little legal factoids like that you might need to know.”

“You mean this will could be drafted in the name Velvel Savitsky?” Mike asked.

“If he was as sentimental about his family and his upbringing as Hal suggests, he probably never made the legal change,” I said. “We all laughed at the morgue when Hal introduced himself as Hershel Savitsky, but the fact is they might never have gone to court to have the actual change made.”

Mike grimaced. He didn't want to get smacked down again by Keith Scully for having me around, but he knew nothing about the legal issues surrounding the estate.

“Just call if you need me,” I said.

“Get your hand off the doorknob, Coop,” Mike said. “You know I need you.”

I swiveled and rested my back against the door. “Were there any other specific disinheritances?” I asked.

“Lily said no, but we're not done with her.”

“I'm thinking of Wanda, the housekeeper who found the body.
Maybe that child that Wanda babysat for wasn't Wolf's kid,” I said. “But things could get complicated if he had this history of fathering children with casual lovers.”

“They've already gotten complicated,” Mike said. “You might as well take a seat.”

“How so?”

Mike looked to Mercer and got a confirmatory nod before speaking to me. “Lily claims that her father has a more recent will than this one.”

“What?” I was shocked. “How long ago did Wolf create this will? It's only been a couple of years since Lily and her father have been getting along, so it must be fairly current.”

“Lily told us that her father had mentioned that he had retained a new lawyer just two months ago, for the purpose of changing some of his bequests.”

“Doesn't she know the lawyer's name?” I asked. “There's no suggestion that anyone has come forward to the family, even with all this publicity.”

“Could be it's just wishful thinking on her part,” Mercer said.

“You think the only reason she's in this office this morning is because Uncle Hal and her brother Reed want to keep her from mouthing off about some other will that's floating around?” I said. “You think they're just trying to keep her from fishing in dark waters?”

“Everybody's on tenterhooks,” Mike said. “They can't possibly know whether Wolf got far enough with a superseding will to make it stand up in court—and whether they do better or worse in the new version. I think they want to keep Lily under their control.”

I was trying to remember everything she told us the first day I met with her.

“They're sure using the right buzzwords,” Mercer said.
“Anything drafted more recently than this, her brother told her, could be tied up in Surrogate's Court for years.”

“For what reason?” I asked.

“She said Hal was throwing around words like fraud,” Mike said. “That if Wolf changed his will again so shortly after working out all the mechanics of this one because of pressure from a particular individual, they might be able to prove—what's the expression?”

“Undue influence,” I said. “They'd argue undue influence.”

“That's it.”

“But
who
? Who does she claim—or do they claim—was the person exerting the bad influence?”

Neither Mike nor Mercer answered.

“Wolf would have to have been vulnerable in some way for a person to be successfully charged with undue influence. There are thousands of court cases with examples of that,” I said. “Now we know after the autopsy that Wolf Savage wasn't even ill. What would have made him so vulnerable—even if he had some business problems—that would convince him to change his will?”

“How's this for vulnerable?” Mike said. “Lily hasn't mentioned it to the rest of the family, but she thinks her father was being blackmailed.”