Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery (13 page)

Pushing aside my memories, I dialed Gloria, Jack’s assistant, and pretended to have a sweater Jack had forgotten long ago at my apartment. I could drop it off while I was in the area. “Mr. Slane isn’t in yet,” she said, her voice barely concealing her disapproval. Apparently Gloria remembered me.

“That’s fine. I don’t need to see him. Like I said, I just want to drop off a sweater.”

She sighed wearily. “You are aware that Mr. Slane is engaged now.”

“It’s a sweater, Gloria.”

Twenty minutes later, I was in the elegant brown and cream lobby of Bennett & Wayne carrying the oversize cardigan I keep in the office for summer days when the AC was on full blast. It was possible that Michael Rockwell had taken the day off, in which case my whole lost-sweater charade would have been for nothing, but I was willing to take the chance. Rockwell wasn’t returning my calls, and even if I did manage to get him on the phone, he’d probably just hang up on me. It would be far harder to kick me out of his office if I was threatening to make a scene.

The receptionist buzzed Gloria to come get me, and Gloria told her to send me back on my own recognizance. Without an escort, I had a brief window during which I could find Rockwell’s office and confront him without raising too much suspicion. After taking the internal elevator to Jack’s floor, I took off my visitor’s tag and asked a harried-looking associate where I could find the corporate department.

The woman stopped, readjusted the box of files she was carrying on her hip. “Who are you looking for?”

“Michael Rockwell.”

“Oh.” Her face screwed up a little at the sound of his name. “He’s in M and A, down that hall, take a left at the bathroom. Third door down. Names are on the doors.”

Sure enough, his office was marked with his name in brass letters. His door had been left slightly ajar, which allowed me to hear that he was inside, alone, and typing at his computer. I knocked once, went in, and closed the door behind me.

“Can I help you?” He was tall and brawny, with thick dark hair, slicked back from his forehead. His pinstriped suit looked custom made, and two gold-and-onyx cufflinks flashed from each of his starched, white cuffs.

I took a seat in one of the two grommet-studded armchairs facing his desk. “Hi Michael. I’m Clyde Shaw. We spoke on the phone the other day.”

He furrowed his brows, not immediately connecting the dots.

“I’m a producer for FirstNews.”

Swiveling in his chair, he picked up the phone and began to dial what I assumed was building security.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“How did you get in here?” he demanded.

I could hear the line ringing on the other end of his call. “Did you really get your wife’s trainer fired from his job?”

His face turned white. “This may come as a shock to you, but I didn’t return your calls for a reason. I have nothing to say, and I know nothing about this case.”

“Where is Rachel, Michael?”

“I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you spoke to her or saw her?”

He slammed the phone back down, booming at me, “I already told the police. She called me Saturday morning, but the call went to voicemail. And she didn’t leave a message.”

“Is there a record of that call coming in?”

“That’s a question for the police. Now could you kindly get the hell out of my office.”

“You’re leaving me no choice but to reveal some unsavory things about your marriage.”

“My marriage is already over,” he blustered, picking up his phone again.

I had to think quickly, buy myself some more time. “What about your career? I bet the partners here will love hearing about how you put a tracer on Rachel’s car. Let me tell you, once that stuff is out there, it’s out for good.” I stood up and took a few steps toward the door. “News cycles may come and go, but the Internet never forgets. You’ll never live that shit down.”

“Wait.” Rockwell picked up his phone and hit a button. “Ruby, move my eleven o’clock to five. Then bump the five to tomorrow at ten. Thanks.”

I slipped my business card across the hand-tooled leather of his desktop and took my seat again.

He studied my card. “Any relation to Bronson Shaw?”

“He’s a distant cousin,” I said, neglecting to mention that Bronson, a successful agribusiness lobbyist down in D.C., was part of the Shaw clan that liked to pretend I didn’t exist.

“I went to Harvard Law with him. Shall I tell him we met?”

“That’s entirely up to you.” If Rockwell was trying to intimidate or impress me with his ties to society—and my own distant kin—he’d pegged me dead wrong.

He removed a small voice recorder from his desk drawer and turned it on. “With your permission, I’d like to tape this interview and also have you state your name, media affiliation, and job title, and that this is an off-the-record interview, meaning that nothing that is said or suggested during the course of our discussion can be used in your reporting.”

“Actually I do mind. I thought we were having a casual conversation.”

“I record
all
my meetings, Miss Shaw. If you have an issue with this, or any of my terms, you are free to leave.”

I had to hand it to him; the guy had his bases covered. Typical lawyer. I repeated the information he requested and then asked my first question. “What does the name André Kaminski mean to you?”

He gritted his teeth.

“When did you find out he and your wife were sleeping together?”

Rockwell’s eyes lit up with anger, but he kept his voice steady. “It seems to me you already know the answer to that question.”

“The harder you make this, the longer it’s going to take. I’ve got all morning but it sounds like you don’t need me tying up your schedule any longer than necessary.” I let that sit with him for a second before plunging forward. “Did you know that after you had André fired from the gym, Rachel found a job for him at the Haverford—the building where Olivia Kravis lived? And that he was working the night Olivia was murdered and your wife disappeared?”

He didn’t say anything for a long time. “That is news to me,” he finally said. It sounded like he was telling the truth.

“How would you describe Rachel’s relationship with Olivia?”

“They were social friends.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“They traveled in similar circles, had similar interests.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Again, silence. Rockwell was either completely stonewalling me, or he really did have no idea what his wife was up to with Olivia. Recalling one of Georgia’s favorite sayings—
if the front door’s locked, throw a rock in a window
—I took a more direct approach. “Were you at Olivia Kravis’s apartment the night of her murder?”

Rockwell gripped the edge of his desk, and when he spoke again his voice was stern and full of malice. “This interview is over, Ms. Shaw, and if you do make the mistake of slandering or libeling me or any of the members of my family, rest assured I will not hesitate for one second to ruin you.” He stood to his full height. “I can be very, very nasty when I want to be.”

I smiled sweetly. “If I had a dollar for every time someone threatened me with a lawsuit, I’d be richer than, well, you, Mr. Rockwell. You’ll have to try a hell of a lot harder than that to scare me.” Then I gathered my things and left. Behind me, I heard Rockwell’s door slam shut.

I was almost at the elevator when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I jumped, thinking it was Jack Slane or his mean-spirited secretary, but it was a man with a sweater in his hands. “You dropped this,” he said, handing it over with a lopsided grin. The man was on the short side, with a blond beard and thick black glasses—geeky but attractive in his own way.

Before I could say anything, I heard Jack Slane’s voice carry around the corner. He was looking for me. I needed to get out of there. “Is there another way out of here?” I asked the man.

“You in a hurry?’

“I need a place to hide. I promise I didn’t steal anything.”

He motioned for me to follow him. A couple of seconds later, I was in his office, the door closed. He introduced himself as Philip Drucker, and offered me water, coffee, and a muffin, all of which I declined. Then he sat on his desk and crossed his arms. “What’s your story?”

I picked up a paperweight on his desk. “Actually that’s why I’m here. For a story. I’m a journalist.”

He waited a beat for me to elaborate. I didn’t. “Can I at least have a name? Number?” he asked, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “I can’t ask you out on a date without one.”

A hard knock on the door interrupted us. Phil excused himself and opened the door a crack, and then, seeing who was on the other side of it, stepped outside and closed the door behind him. There were muffled voices, a crackle that sounded like it was coming from a walkie-talkie, and then a man’s voice escalating to almost a shout. Suddenly the door opened.

On the other side stood two security guards and Jack Slane. He pointed a finger at me. “There she is, guys.”

H
e was fatter than I remembered—a nice big spare tire where his six-pack used to be—and he had less hair. Most everything else was the same: wide shoulders, narrow eyes, smug, pretty-boy face. Looking at him now, I couldn’t believe I’d wasted one moment of my life pining for him and berating myself for losing him to another woman.

“Is there a problem?” I asked, playing dumb. I was on his turf, but I also had the upper hand.

“She’s trespassing,” Jack yelled. “She lied and she’s up to something. Get her out of here.”

One of the guards coughed, and with an apologetic glow in his eye, turned to address me. “Mr. Slane says you have a sweater of his in your possession.”

“This is my fault,” Philip Drucker said, his hand encircling my waist. “She wanted to surprise me. It’s my birthday today.”

The second guard took a step back. He looked flustered. “Happy birthday, sir.”

Jack glared at Philip.

“OK, Mr. Slane,” the first guard said. “Mystery solved. Sir. Ma’am. Sorry for the trouble.”

“I’m so sorry, Jack,” I cooed, not being able to resist the opportunity. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your day.”

His eyes flashed to me before he turned to leave. “The fuck you didn’t, you whore.”

“Are you OK?” Philip asked, closing his door.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, looking down at my shaking hands. “Thanks very much for covering for me.”

“It’s none of my business, but what happened between you and him?”

“Once upon a time I did a little damage to his apartment. Would you believe me if I said he had it coming?”

Philip laughed. “He is a prick.”

I cocked my head. “It’s not really your birthday is it?”

“Actually it is. Do you have plans tonight?”

I think I may have blushed. “I do. Work. I’m a producer for FirstNews. But if you aren’t busy next Monday, there’s a fundraiser at the Mandarin Oriental I have to attend. Black tie. I know it’s short notice.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Lucky for you, I’m free
and
I just got my tuxedo back from the dry cleaners. What time do the festivities commence?”

“Seven and we have to be there on time. No showing up half way through the salad course.”

“It’s not a problem. I’ll change into my tux here. May I arrange a car for the evening?”

“Please don’t go to the trouble.”

“But it’s no trouble.”

“OK, then.” We exchanged phone numbers and he walked me back to the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby once it arrived.

“See you next week,” he said as the doors slid closed.

I spent the rest of the day at the office tracking down and talking to a few of Olivia’s coworkers at the foundation. All of them told me basically the same thing, which was that Olivia didn’t have any enemies, and that she hadn’t been acting differently in the months and weeks before her death. There had been no strange meetings, unexplained days off, or other red flags. No money had randomly disappeared from the foundation’s coffers, and none of the grant recipients had shown up on the trust’s doorstep with complaints. I didn’t come away totally empty-handed, however. After some pestering, Olivia’s assistant, Emma Reiter, a recent college grad with blue-shock hair and multiple facial piercings, said she’d let me into Olivia’s office if I came by after everyone else went home.

Emma called me at six o’clock. I walked over to their offices on Thirty-seventh and Madison, right across from the Morgan Library. I handed my identification to the security guard, got a building pass, and rode the elevator up twenty floors to the foundation’s offices. Emma was waiting for me behind a pair of glass doors. “You’ll be quick, right?” she asked with an anxious frown.

I sailed past her, making a beeline for Olivia’s office. “As quick as I can.”

One wall of Olivia’s office was covered with awards she’d received on behalf of the foundation, the other of photographs she’d taken of the children the foundation had helped over the years. Her desktop was crowded with framed art and pottery kids had made for her, but something was missing. “Where’s the laptop?