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Authors: Kelly Lange

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BOOK: Dead File
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Kendyl knew her boss well, knew his roving eye, and she considered every pretty woman with whom Carter Rose came into contact a potential rival. A threat, even. Including this one, the reporter. She knew Carter had entertained the woman in his home. After his press conference at the house two days ago, he’d asked Kendyl to pull anything on Maxi Poole off the Net for him to review—she was having dinner at his house that night, he’d said. And yesterday he’d told her to send flowers to Maxi Poole at the station where she worked, Channel Six in Burbank. Red roses, of course, his signature flower. And he’d dictated a note he wanted sent with the flowers: “Here’s to success with our new team effort. Warm regards, Carter Rose.”

Kendyl never ordered the flowers. When he asked her if she’d sent them, she said of course she did. He was in there with her now, probably wondering when the woman was going to thank him for the damn roses. And Carter was a gentleman; he would never bring up the subject himself, because he’d know that would embarrass her if she’d just forgotten to say thank you. Eventually he would just have to think Maxi Poole was rude. Fine with Kendyl.

She wouldn’t have to worry about Sandie Schaeffer being competition anymore. When Carter had asked her to call Dr. Wallace Stevens at the hospital for information on Sandie’s condition, she was told that Ms. Schaeffer was still in a coma, still critical. Was she expected to come out of it? she’d asked. Sandie’s doctor said there was no way to know, but he didn’t sound optimistic. And if she did regain consciousness, Kendyl had asked, would she be … okay? “There might be brain damage,” was all the doctor would say.

Kendyl was amazed that Sandie hadn’t died from that gunshot to the head. A fluke, she figured. Lucky Sandie. Or maybe not so lucky. After her conversation with Dr. Stevens, Kendyl wasn’t worried about what Sandie would remember if she came out of it—it was looking like her brains would be scrambled. Even if she did remember certain things, and she talked about them, people would assume she was delusional.

The one beautiful woman Kendyl had never considered a rival was Gillian Rose. Carter had told her he hadn’t had sex with his wife in years, that they were married in name only. But he could never divorce Gillian, because that would mean divorcing the company. Neither would have the means to buy the other out of the business, and they would be forced to sell it and split what was left. Which wouldn’t be much, he’d said, because they were leveraged to the max. And everything they’d worked for, everything they’d built for almost a decade, would be wiped out. Well, couldn’t they still run the business together, even if they weren’t man and wife? Kendyl had asked him. “That’s exactly what we’re doing now,” he’d said.

Carter was the business genius behind the company, while Gillian had been the creative prodigy. Gillian spearheaded the development of new product, while Carter jockeyed the contracts, patents, and funds. They were a brilliant business team, Kendyl conceded, but now that Gillian was dead, Carter would need a new creative force in the company. And in his life.

Kendyl didn’t know much about the product side of Rose International, just the business side. Sandie Schaeffer knew everything there was to know about the company’s plans for product development, because she had worked side by side with Gillian Rose since the company’s inception. Kendyl had definitely considered Sandie Schaeffer a threat.

And certainly Sandie was pretty, in a soft, quiet way. Not dazzling, never dramatically beautiful, but still pretty, with that serene, blond, Grace Kelly kind of look that men seemed to go for. And just a few weeks ago, Kendyl had been confronted by the distinct possibility that Carter was sleeping with Sandie.

She knew because she knew the man, probably better than his own wife had known him. She took note of his several meetings with Sandie of late, either here in his own suite, or in Gillian’s. Before, he rarely ventured over to “the other side,” as they both jokingly called the adjacent suite of offices. Lately he’d become a habitual visitor, dropping in to see Sandie on what Kendyl considered one pretext or another. Or he’d call her and ask her to stop by his office, he had something to show her or to bring to her attention. Oh, sure. Kendyl knew the signs.

In Kendyl’s mind, Gillian’s death cleared the way for Carter to choose a new wife. Oh, not right away, of course, but at some point down the road. And if Carter was indeed sleeping with Sandie, she might have been a prime candidate. For two reasons. First, for her extensive and guarded knowledge of Rose International product development; Sandie could conceivably replace Gillian in that area. And second, for a man like Carter Rose, the best sex was new sex.

But Kendyl didn’t have to worry about Sandie Schaeffer anymore.

There was a
tap-tap
on her office door. Then a waiter from the cafeteria came in carrying a tray. Kendyl wrote in a tip and signed the slip, thanked the waiter, and watched after him as he left the suite.

She considered the tray. A tall silver pot of steaming coffee and a round ceramic pot of tea that was still brewing. Along with a tray of miniature muffins.

If she were of a mind to do some damage, just think what she could do with this pot of scalding tea.

16

M
axi needed to ease the chitchat with Carter Rose into conversation about last night’s attack on Sandie Schaeffer. She had a slug for a cameraman waiting for her twenty-six floors below, and the police would be holding a briefing for the assembled media down there that she couldn’t miss—there was no trusting Lemke to shoot it properly without her, and besides, she needed to ask questions. Meantime, she wanted a statement on camera from Carter Rose on Gillian’s assistant. Something. Anything he would deign to say. She’d have another exclusive; she was sure nobody else would get this far with him. And that might save her from the wrath of Capra for not getting the ambulance shots.

The door from the outer office opened and Rose’s willowy, sloe-eyed assistant came in with the drinks. She put the tray down on the coffee table in front of Carter and Maxi, then set out cups, sugars, a pitcher of cream, and cutlery. Then, picking up the steaming pot of tea, she held a cup and the teapot, precariously, Maxi thought, directly over Maxi’s lap. “Shall I pour?” she asked sweetly.

“No,” Maxi said with an audible gulp. “Let it steep for a few minutes.” She didn’t trust this woman.

Kendyl set the teapot back down on the table with a prim little shrug, and poured coffee for Carter. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she addressed them both.

“Yes,” Maxi spoke up. “Can you give me a comment on Sandie Schaeffer? You two work closely together, and as I understand it, both of you were here from the company’s inception. You must be devastated by what’s happened to her.” Maxi took a pen and her reporter’s notebook out of her purse, opened both, and poised to write.

Kendyl straightened, and her face visibly sobered. “Sandie is wonderful,” she said. “And she’s a trouper. I’m sure she’s going to get through this and be back with us very soon. And I’m certain that I speak for all of her colleagues when I say that we’ll do everything we can to help her get back on her feet, and back on the job with her family here at the Rose company.”

Maxi watched her. Pretty speech. But lying eyes, her intuition told her. Ice cream wouldn’t melt in this woman’s mouth. “Thank you, Kendyl,” she said quietly, and equally as sincerely.

When Kendyl Scott left the office and closed the door behind her, Maxi poured herself a cup of tea, added a packet of sugar substitute and a squeeze of lemon, stirred the brew, and took a sip, then looked squarely at Carter Rose. “Well,” she breathed, “I have a job to do. May I ask what
your
feelings are about this attack on Sandie?”

“Yes. Obviously it was the same person who killed Gillian,” he responded with conviction.

“Why obviously?”

“Well, look at it. It happened in the same office. Four days apart. And Gillian and Sandie were joined at the hip.”

“So you still think Gillian was murdered—”

“Of course she was murdered. And anybody who didn’t think so before should certainly be convinced of it now, with Sandie almost killed.”

“Who would do this?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Gillian and Sandie did something. Or knew something. Whatever the reason, I’m sure it involved both of them—those two used to finish each other’s sentences.”

“And what about the attempted attack on you?” Maxi asked. Carter Rose looked perplexed. “The break-in you told the press about at your house,” she pressed.

“Oh, that. So much has happened that I actually forgot about that for a minute. . . .”

“You got a good look at the person, right?”

“Yes. In my bedroom.”

On Wednesday Rose had refused to answer questions about the intruder. Maxi hoped to get something out of him now. “Was it someone you know?” she asked.

“I told you I couldn’t talk about it,” he said.

“Well, at least tell me if it was a man or woman. And if you still think that person is Gillian’s killer, and Sandie’s attacker.”

“I can’t, Maxi.”

“Why not?”

“Because the police told me not to. You saw them that day, the chief as well as the detectives. They want to keep the details hushed so they can nail him with stuff that only he would know.”

“Then it
is
a he.”

“Okay, yes, it was a man.”

“Just tell me if you think the person who broke into your house is the person who attacked Sandie Schaeffer and killed your wife.”

“Yes. I do.”

“How did he get in through your locked doors? And past the help, and upstairs into your bedroom?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“This is exasperating. What about our deal?”

Carter smiled. “This was privileged information before we made our deal,” he said. “Seriously, Maxi, the detectives warned me to tell nobody the answers to the questions you’re asking. Especially not the media.”

“Okay, then make it up to me. Give me a statement on camera about the attack on Sandie. Your thoughts about it.”

“Sure,” he said. That surprised her.

“Good. I’ll call my cameraman up here.” She reached for her cell phone.

“Wait on that,” he said. “The police are going to let me know when they’re ready to do the press briefing, and I don’t want to miss it. Believe me, I’m as interested as you are in what they’ll have to say. We’ll go down to the lobby together when they’re ready.”

“Then afterward you’ll give me a statement?”

“Yes, but not out front. I don’t want the rest of the news vultures all over me. We’ll go inside, into one of the ground-floor conference rooms, and lock the door.”

“Perfect,” Maxi said.

17

A
nd at this time we have no other leads on Ms. Schaeffer’s attacker,” Sergeant Carlos Salinger was saying. Salinger was one of the LAPD detectives who had been at Carter Rose’s house two days ago when he held his news conference. Maxi threw out a question: “Is your investigation encompassing the death of Gillian Rose and the attempted attack on Carter Rose?”

“Yes,” Salinger responded. “We’ve teamed up on the cases.” Maxi assumed that Salinger was the lead. “And have you come up with any evidence?” was her follow-up.

“On the Gillian Rose death, Ms. Poole, we have no indication of foul play, as you already know. And on the Carter Rose B-and-E there’s nothing we can release at this time. As for the attack on Ms. Schaeffer, we’re saying only that we believe it to be an inside event, perpetrated by someone she knew, someone with access to this building on a twenty-four-hour basis. We’ll be canvassing the guards who were on duty through the night and checking their logbook to see who came and went, and we’ll be talking to company personnel.”

“Do you know who Mr. Rose’s would-be attacker was?” piped up a reporter from Channel Four.

“We’re not at liberty to divulge that,” said Salinger.

“Why not?” came from several in the media crowd.

Salinger and his partner, Detective Donald Barnett, exchanged exasperated looks. They were never required to explain to journalists their reasons for withholding information from the press, and the reporters knew that. Salinger signaled an end to the briefing, which was remarkable only in its paucity of information.

Maxi turned to Carter Rose. “Shall we?” she asked.

“Okay,” he said, and he turned and headed for the doors into the building. Maxi followed, with Lemke trailing her, lugging his equipment.

When they were set up inside the conference room and Lemke was rolling, Maxi warmed up with a softball. “Mr. Rose, your reaction to the attack on Ms. Schaeffer?”

“I’m devastated,” he started, and he went on to extol the woman’s virtues, her consummate skills, her many duties and accomplishments, her longtime loyalty to the company, the respect and affection for her held by all of her colleagues, and so on. Maxi patiently let him finish, knowing that she wouldn’t use a frame of it on the air. When he wound down, she slid in the zinger: “Detective Salinger said they suspect that the intruder came from inside the company, somebody who knew her, and who had access to the building after business hours. That could describe you, Mr. Rose, couldn’t it?”

Carter Rose gave her a look that said,
How could you throw that at me? I thought we were friends.
She returned his look with a stolid look of her own. Hers said,
Sorry, there are no friends when we’re talking about a criminal investigation.

“Yes, that could describe me,” Rose answered then in measured tones. “But it wasn’t me,” he said. Then he waved his hand in front of his face to indicate that he was finished answering questions.

“We’re done,” Maxi confirmed to Alan Lemke, who turned off the camera and lifted it off the tripod.

“I can’t believe this!” Rose blurted to Maxi. “What the hell did you expect me to answer to that?”

“I had to ask,” Maxi responded, betraying no emotion.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said curtly, “my wife’s funeral is tomorrow and I have a lot to do.” Services for Gillian Rose the next day were private, Maxi knew.

BOOK: Dead File
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