Murder.com (14 page)

"And there's a primer for you on
how
not
to host
your next Christmas party," I said, chuckling.

"Wow. And that chap is a friend of
yours?"

"He's an acquaintance now. I went
to law school with him."

"Back in the day," Imogen
mocked.

"Yes, my dear. Back in the
day."

The city lights that glowed
through the windows on the top of the Gansevoort were magnificent.
I was staring out of the window, Imogen on my arm, taking in the
open view of upper Manhattan, admiring the beauty of the city,
wondering why I had ever left NYC for the quiet suburbs. Maybe I
had left because it was time to grow up, and that was what grownups
did, right? They got married, moved out of New York City, had
families, and built white picket fences around their quarter-acre
plot. I admit that I had been tired of city life when I'd made my
exodus. Maybe I was tired of living alone. Tired of the solitary
nature of being one of eight million beings wandering through this
town looking for something that was never going to materialize
because it didn't exist. My millions had helped me to come to the
realization that I wanted more out of life than money. Happiness
was something that one should strive for. That was something that
had eluded me, and when I realized that, I'd left. And that was
when I met Imogen.

I continued to gaze at the tiny
lighted skyscraper windows somewhere in the distance around
Midtown, lost in my thoughts, when Ginny grabbed me, turned me
around, and escorted me over to a couch. "Have a seat, Max." We sat
and I had another drink. Ginny was chatty.

"I saw this show last night on the
telly," Imogen said.

"I didn't realize that you were
still up," I said.

"I was lying on the couch, and
this docu came on about some woman who was around my age, not
married, and wanting a baby."

"So, she got married and had a
kid?" I asked.

"Not quite. She realized that she
was getting older and that her chances of meeting someone and
having a child were quickly fading away. So she came up with an
idea. And no one around her was supportive. Not her family,
friends, strangers. But she was determined to do it."

"Do what?"

"Have a baby."

"And how was she going to do
that?"

"She was going to have the baby
via in-vitro fertilization. She had the injections to prime the
womb, then the fertilization—"

"And she filmed all of
that?"

"She did. It was fascinating and
also terrifying. At least, that's what I felt. Then she got
pregnant and had the baby. She filmed all of that too. Then I
realized that I was crying. Lying on the couch crying at one in the
morning." She paused. "Max, I'm already forty! I don't want to be
that woman."

"You just turned forty! I wouldn't
worry about it, Ginny."

"I'm not getting any younger, and
you still haven't popped the question. Time is running
out."

"Whoa, why are we jumping to
conclusions here?"

"You're not. I am. When are we
tying the knot?"

I took a sip of my champagne. Glass number two. I
needed glass number three immediately.

"Listen, Ginny, this is going to
happen. I just can't be rushed on the timing. There's a lot going
on right now, if you hadn't noticed. I've got the POP stuff, I'm on
the verge of being arrested, we're in the middle of investigating a
murder and—"

"Excuses. That's what I'm hearing.
Give me some hope here, Max!"

What Ginny didn't know was that I
had acted on my initial inclination to head over to Whistler. I was
now in full-blown planning mode. And on the agenda was a New Year's
proposal in British Columbia. I had even picked out the ring. It
would be ready in another week or so.

"Ginny, I can promise you one
thing for sure."

"What's that?"

"Engagement by Q3 next
year."

I was out to torture poor Imogen.
It would make the proposal more of a surprise. Or so I concluded,
but Ginny's face dropped. Her beautiful facial features slumped, as
if gravity was weighing extra heavy on her being.

"Q3! Who says that? I hate you,
Max."

"Hate's a strong word,
Ginny."

"Well, maybe not hate. More like
loathe. I loathe you, Max, and with that attitude I might not be
around until Q3!"

"Stick around, kid. You won't be
sorry."

I pulled Ginny a little closer to me and rested her
head on my shoulder briefly.

"We'll get there, my dear. Have a
little faith."

"Five years is certainly a
demonstration of my faith, Max. Get this show on the
road."

She picked her head up off my
shoulder and finished her drink. She placed her empty glass down on
the mini-table that was sitting in front of us. "Let's mingle. This
is a party, after all."

I felt my arm being tugged and then pulled as I
placed my own glass down and proceeded to stand. I felt a quick
head rush from getting up so quickly. Maybe it was just from
standing. I shook it off, and then Ginny and I proceeded to stroll
through the party.

I grabbed another drink from one of the wait staff
and took a sip while I surveyed this assembled group. It was no
mystery as to why I had received an invite. Jake was looking for
more money. Everyone had an agenda. I glanced over the guests and
then homed in on one in particular. There was Mike Miller. Of
course he was here. Jake was looking for money from him too.

Mike caught my gaze. I was
trapped. I was also with Imogen, which meant that Mike would now be
privy to the fact that Ginny and I were more than just colleagues.
I couldn't quite calculate the ramifications of this revelation, if
any, at this moment. All I knew was that I had to go over and say
hello.

We walked back across the room toward the bar, Ginny
holding my arm, making it clear to anyone looking that we were
indeed a couple. We walked over to Mike.

"I see you got the invite as
well," I said to Mike, extending a hand to shake.

"I certainly did. Did you the get
the full-court press yet?" Mike met my hand and we shook. I
chuckled.

"You could say that, yes." I
smiled.

"Ah, Miss Whitehall, a pleasure to
see you again," Mike said, eyeing Ginny.

Ginny grinned and was about to
speak when I interrupted. "Where's Kate?" I asked, noticing that
Mike was alone.

"Home. She wasn't feeling
well."

"Pity," Ginny said. "I quite
enjoyed her company the other night."

"She enjoyed yours as well. She
did make an effort to come tonight, but as she was getting herself
ready she felt terribly ill and had to lie down."

"Oh, I do hope she's all
right."

"Yes, thank you, Miss Whitehall,
she should be fine. Probably just one of those twenty-four-hour
things, you know."

Mike certainly didn't come here
alone. I was wondering who had escorted him. Was it Kitty? That
would be something, wouldn't it?

"Enjoying yourself,
Mike?"

"Mildly." He made a dismissive
face, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips as he raised his
drink to his mouth. "It's a necessary inconvenience, I
guess."

"I can't say Jake didn't try. Look
at this place." I was still taken with the decor.

"All they're missing is Rudolph in
the corner autographing headshots."

Ginny and I both laughed. Look at this—Mike had a
sense of humor after all. To reward himself on a quip well told, he
raised his amber glass once again and smugly sipped his drink.

"I can't imagine I'm staying too
much longer," Mike admitted, after lowering his glass once
again.

A man approached Mike from his
rear. He was in his mid-sixties, full head of straight gray hair,
sky-blue eyes hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in a suit
complete with bow tie. He was tall, a bit lanky, and gave off the
air of a professor, but one who was certainly very well dressed.
His face was intense, and showed its age with deep ridges around
his eyes, between his eyebrows, and across his forehead. His skin
was well tanned, as if he had just returned from St. Barts, which
was very possible. It was Ken Clarke.

Ken approached slowly, carrying a martini in his
hand complete with three olives, all aligned neatly on a red and
green toothpick leaning against the side of his glass. He raised
his other hand, forming an L with his arm, as he approached. Either
he was making a left turn or was attempting to wave at me.

"Max Slade. Here in the
flesh."

"Hi, Ken. Good to see you. I see
you got my messages. You must have known I was going to be here." I
was still annoyed that Clarke had ignored all my attempts to
contact him. He looked at me a little peeved and a little
embarrassed by my comment calling him out on his
inattentiveness.

"Aren't you funny. I didn't know
that about you, Max," he dryly retorted.

"I'm a regular
comedian."

"I've been busy. End of year and
all. Sorry I didn't get back to you, but I'm glad that I had a
chance to run into you here," he said with a smile, although his
face expressed nothing but contempt for me.

"My condolences about Ted." I
finally had a chance to mention Ted directly to Ken. This was
probably my only chance. I was going to take full
advantage.

Clarke lowered his head, eyes
slumped toward the ground, face drooped. "So
unfortunate."

"Indeed. Tragic. And how it
happened, I mean, Jesus, Ken. It was shocking, to say the least." I
did my best shocked impression without going overboard.

"It was horrific, Max. I don't
even know what to say. Murder. It's unheard of! It was a shock to
the system, I can tell you that. I'm still trying to get over it.
To have your friend killed in his own home. His own home! It's
terrifying."

Clarke was animated as he
described his feelings regarding Ted's death. This was definitely
not how Mike had described Ken's feelings. He had made it seem as
if Clarke couldn't care less. He was still going on. "I'm sure Mike
told you that we're really broken up over here at BMC over it. It
took me a few weeks to even get back to normal. We spent weeks
talking to the police about it. Every day with their questions,
reminding me what had happened. It's hard to move on when you're
constantly being asked questions. Do you know what I mean, Max?
Hard. So very hard." Ken's emotions were clouding his speech, as he
was beginning to ramble a touch.

Did I know what he meant? Try
being thrown in a cell, Ken. Questions were easy. Pleading for your
freedom, now that was a trick I'd like to see him pull
off.

"I understand. It must be hard.
I'm so sorry."

"I can tell you this, Max—I hope
they find whoever did this and string them up," Ken said, with such
malice in his voice that even his drink was shaking.

"I think we all hope they find the
killer. We all need some closure. Haven't the police found anything
that might help them yet?"

I had to dig. See if he had anything. Anything that
could help.

"We just don't know," Mike
interjected. "They don't tell us anything. I know I haven't even
seen a cop in weeks."

"Besides asking me irrelevant
questions, nothing, Max. Nothing. I don't know what the hell
they're doing over there."

"I'm sure they're working on it.
You can't catch a killer overnight, right? There's probably a lot
to sort through. I'm no expert on homicide investigations. They
must take a long time." I paused briefly, took a sip of my drink,
and then continued to lie: "Do you have any thoughts on what
happened? Who could have done this?" I was hoping that Ken would
offer up his theory on the killing. After all, he must have had
one.

"I haven't the foggiest notion.
It's simply too shocking. Some insane psychopath I guess. Ted died.
He's gone. This was someone's life we're talking about
here."

Not exactly what I was hoping for from Ken, but his
emotions seemed genuine. He was angry.

"I don't mean to upset you, Ken. I
know this is hard."

"I know. Well, I'm a few of these
in," he said, lifting his glass, "and, well, being at parties and
around people celebrating life…" To my utter disbelief, Ken seemed
to be choked up with emotion. His eyes began to well up with tears,
although they didn't break the levee of his eyelids. He tried to
regain his composure and then continued, "Anyway, enough of this
depressing talk. I apologize if I've upset you."

"Don't be silly, Ken."

"If you'll excuse me, I'll go grab
myself another drink." He lifted his glass up again, and this time
he shook it slightly to demonstrate that he had drained it. "Can I
get any of you anything?"

"No thank you," I said.

"Well, merry Christmas to you,
Max." With that, Clarke popped the miniature wood spike containing
the three olives in his mouth, closed his lips, and pulled out a
clean toothpick. He turned and walked toward the bar.