Murder.com (13 page)

"So now what?"

"You're free to go."

"For now?"

"For the time being. I'm going to
follow up on the information that you just gave me. But you know
the rules. No disappearing. You might be back sooner than
later."

He turned and walked back inside
as I stood and stared at the bricks. I took a deep breath, turned,
and walked over to my car. Disaster averted, again. I had the
feeling if there was a third time, it wouldn't be a
charm.

After the whole jail scare, Imogen
and I returned to the city. The holidays were right around the
corner. We had already celebrated Thanksgiving, the weather had
turned, and now the slight chill in the air had transformed, to my
horror, into bone-chilling cold. POP was moving along, though, and
I was quite optimistic that we had a decent shot at closing our
round of funding, thanks in large part to Baxter, Miller &
Clarke, by Christmas. Over the past two weeks my office has been
communicating with BMC in order to secure the funding that Mike and
I had discussed over dinner. I had not chatted with Mike nor seen
him since that night at Gramercy Tavern. I had, however, tried to
contact Clarke more than once. I'd left a few messages with his
secretary, but he had not returned my calls. Kitty, as well, had
faded into the background over the past two weeks. Not a peep had
emerged from her. I had no idea if she had tried to stop by my home
in the suburbs, but, even if she had, she must have figured out by
now that we were no longer living there. Either that or she
believed that she had the worst luck in the world trying to catch
me.

So far, Imogen and I agreed on one
thing. We both did not want me arrested for Ted's murder. The other
thing that we agreed on was Mike's involvement in Ted's death. His
email, his general demeanor at our dinner at Gramercy Tavern, and
the Kitty connection all gave him ample motive to kill Ted. And
John's questioning of me had changed our focus. Maybe this had
something to do with love. And greed. Those two emotions are very
powerful.

We still weren't ruling out Kitty
as the accomplice or murderer. Especially after she had lied to me.
But we were both confused as to why she would have bothered
soliciting my help or providing me with the email from Mike to
Ted.

Although I was now terrified that
I would end up back at the police station, this time to be
arrested, we had both decided that we would put the Ted
investigation to rest until after New Year's. I was determined to
enjoy the next few weeks and to plan a proper proposal to Imogen.
My thoughts veered toward renting a chateau in Whistler, British
Columbia, for some skiing, relaxing, and proposing. We would spend
our days enjoying top-notch skiing and then our nights in the
village of Whistler, a quaint, picturesque winter wonderland, for
dinner and drinks. Once back at the chateau we would sip wine in
our outdoor hot tub, resting our tired bones and preparing for our
next day of skiing. It was exactly what we both needed, and I was
quite confident that Ginny wouldn't mind capping off the trip with
a mountaintop proposal followed by an exceptional dinner in the
village.

Imogen was still coming to work with me every day.
It was a staggering development. I had thought that I may have been
on the way to convincing her to work with me full-time, even though
she feigned consternation about coming to an office on a daily
basis. Something told me that a proposal would change her mind.

With Christmas just around the
corner, we were moving into full holiday party mode. I had received
several holiday party invitations from a bunch of our portfolio
companies, as well as some from other companies that were always
courting our business. Tonight we were attending one such
party.

The invitation arrived from Jake
Cooper, an old friend from law school and the CEO of a social media
and video delivery company. They were always very creative with
their invitations. This one was a video of his office dancing like
a bunch of crazy people. How could you turn down that sort of
invite? In all honesty, I couldn't care less about the invitation.
What drew me in was that the party was going to be at the top of
the Gansevoort Hotel.

The Gansevoort was located in the Meatpacking
District of Manhattan. Amongst the trendy restaurants and
twenty-something hipsters running around there sat the luxury of
the Gansevoort and her heated rooftop pool. In the city, a rooftop
pool was an oasis. And one in a luxury hotel was even better. I
used to spend countless summer weekends at the rooftop pool,
spending way too much money on food and alcohol, hitting on women
and hanging out with my friends. If I could only turn back the
hands of time.

Ginny had never been to the
Gansevoort. How that was possible was beyond me. I was still amazed
when Ginny told me that she hadn't been to this famous place or
that in or around Manhattan. She always answered me the same way:
"I'm not into that sort of scene." I was never quite sure what that
meant, but it didn't really bother me. Most likely it was because
she didn't spend her twenties and early thirties in New York City.
She'd moved to New York after living in London her whole life. She
said she'd wanted a change after she'd retired. So she'd packed up
and moved herself to an affluent suburb. Bought herself an
eight-room mansion and settled in. We'd met about six months later,
when I'd finally come to the realization that I was too old to be
running around Manhattan every night, drinking, chasing women, and
generally running myself ragged. Selling my first company for a
fortune hadn't hurt either.

We were back at the brownstone
getting ourselves dolled up and ready to attend the party. I, as
per the norm, was ready first, dressed in my typical getup of a
black suit, black shirt, and no tie. I poured myself a scotch,
relaxed in my brown leather club chair, and stared out the window
at the place across the street. It was a white brownstone. From my
apartment you could see across the road and directly into the
living room through their large French bay windows. You could see
the Miro hanging above the couch, the Picasso off to the side of
the living room. An enormous bejeweled Victorian chandelier hung
from the ceiling, blocking, from my view, what was most likely a
painting by Manet. This person must look into my brownstone and ask
himself what sort of pauper lived there. Who was I kidding? They
were so rich that they were probably never home. Too busy at one of
their six other homes.

A drink and a half later, Imogen
emerged in a stunning black dress that complemented her beautiful
features so exquisitely that it made me feel guilty I was even
internally questioning the time it took her to get herself ready.
To round out the outfit, she wore an antique necklace comprised of
a singular evergreen emerald dangling from a gold chain. It made
her eyes glow.

"Don't you look beautiful," I
said.

"Thank you, Max. You clean up
rather nicely yourself."

"Shall we, or would you like a
drink first?"

"Aren't we late
already?"

"Does it really
matter?"

"Well then, I'll take that
drink."

We arrived at the Gansevoort
fashionably late, if you thought an hour and half late was
fashionable. There was an attendant with a velvet rope in front of
the elevator making sure that all who entered were on the guest
list. After we were granted access, Ginny and I walked into the
stark metallic silver elevator and rode it to the top floor, where
Jake had rented out the entire roof bar. When the elevator door
opened, I felt like I was in
The
Wizard of Oz
when
Dorothy arrives in Oz and opens her black and white house door,
revealing a world of vivid color. Reds, greens, lights, people
mingling, glasses clinking, Christmas trees everywhere, dangling
candy canes contrasted against the floor-to-ceiling windows
overlooking Manhattan. This was holiday sensory
overload.

"Oh my," I muttered to Ginny, as
she grabbed my arm, stepping out of the elevator into holiday
Oz.

"Indeed."

I searched the room with my eyes,
trying to find anyone who I might know at this party.
Unfortunately, my eyes continued to be accosted by the decor. We
inched forward, playing every part of the power couple that we
were. I grabbed a glass of champagne from one of the gloved
wandering servers while Imogen grabbed a white wine.

"What kind of white?"

"Pinot." She made a disapproving
face. "No doubt house."

We strolled the length of the room, passing couches
that lined the windows, little tables, and small ottomans that were
scattered about, forming sitting areas. Waiters whisked food
through the crowd with nonchalant expertise while the partygoers
drank and ate with reckless abandonment. I grabbed a piece of
prosciutto-wrapped melon and popped it into my mouth.

"There he is!" someone said,
giving me a good slap on my back. I nearly choked on my melon.
After using my tongue as a shield to prevent the melon from lodging
itself in my throat, I turned around. There stood Jake Cooper,
dressed almost exactly like myself minus the jacket, as were most
of the guys here. Everyone in holiday party clothes.

Jake was blond, blue-eyed, and chiseled—well, his
face was. He was a bit plump around the midsection, which probably
meant that he was working too hard and taking full advantage of the
free snack area at the office. His wife must have been in agreement
with my analysis of his appearance. She was busy walking away from
him.

"Jake," I said, my mouth full in
mid-chew. I chewed as fast as I could and swallowed. "Good to see
you, man."

"I'm glad you could make it. How
do you like all of this?" Jake fanned the room with his hand,
inviting me to try my darndest to take in the grandeur—no, the
splendor—that was this holiday party.

Ginny looked at me with eyes that
were saying,
This guy's
crazy
. I looked at her, confirming her
suspicions while I gave myself a moment to compose an
answer.

"It's something else."

Jake was simply waiting for a
response. It didn't matter what it was. He was busy waiting to say,
"We've had a wonderful year. Revenue through the roof. You should
have invested, pal."

"That's grea—"

"Seriously, Max, we nailed it this
year. I knew we could do it. Hard work…" He rambled on for minutes.
He was clearly tipsy, and who could blame him? This was a holiday
party that he was throwing for his employees that had helped him to
make his company a success. But holiday parties were not about
business to me. They were about actually celebrating and having a
good time, not networking.

After taking a ten-second breather
by knocking down his full martini glass, he started in again, this
time slurring a bit. "But you're in luck, you lucky devil." Perhaps
he was a bit further along than tipsy. He put his arm around me
now, and was pulling me a little closer to him so that I wouldn't
miss what was going to come out of his mouth next. "You lucky
bastard. You know I love you. That's why I'm going to give you a
little info that I know you're going to be psyched to hear, bro.
Totally psyched." Jake wobbled, and he was now using my shoulder to
hold himself upright. "Check this. We had such a kickass year, bro,
and now I'm going to give you the chance to get in on this thing.
Yeah, you heard me. This thing is big time, Max, and I know you're
not going to let it slip by this time. Right? Right. I'll put you
down for a shitload of cash, cool?"

"Jake, this isn't really the
plac—"

"Naw, naw, no, don't be that way,
Max. We go way back. We're old school, brother." Jake gave me a
drunken shoulder bear hug. I didn't like it.

I didn't know how Jake missed her
when she was standing off to the side, but now Imogen slid next to
me, and this seemed to throw him into a totally inappropriate
state. Jake punched me in my arm, hard.

"Maxy, Maxy, Maxy. You son of a
bitch. Look at this woman." Jake was pointing at Imogen, still
balancing himself with an arm now around the back of my neck.
"
Look
at this
vision of beauty." Jake now attempted to grab Ginny's hand to kiss
it. Instead he was pawing at her forearm. Ginny, taking pity on
this creature, placed her palm in his, allowing Jake to complete
the outdated and very cheesy action of kissing the back of her
hand. "My dear, you are simply gorgeous. Max, this woman is
gorgeous. Don't tell me that you're with Maxy over here." Ginny
just stood there. Jake was yelling, but the music was playing so
loudly in the background that it didn't matter how loudly anyone
spoke. "Oh my God, you are! How did Max nail down someone like
you?"

That was our cue. I removed Jake's
arm from my neck and helped him to steady himself.

"Jake, it was great to see you." I
patted him on his back. Not with too much force behind it, mind
you, but just enough to give him the old buddy pat. I didn't need
him toppling over at his own party. "Drop off a business plan at my
office and we'll take a look at your next round."

"A pleasure," Imogen said, then we
both turned and walked through the room toward the floor-to-ceiling
window.