Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery (26 page)

Officially.

I downed my vitamins, flicked on my Happy Light, and put in a call to Panda and another to Rachel’s divorce lawyer. Then I looked up Orchid Cellmark. According to the company’s Web page, they provided legally admissible DNA testing, paternity testing, and forensic DNA testing. The British government used them. So did the New York Medical Examiner’s Office. This place was the real deal. And it was based in New Jersey, just a short ride away. I picked up the envelope again. The date stamp indicated it had been mailed a week before Olivia was killed. I picked up the phone to call the company and, after spending a good fifteen minutes in auto-attendant hell, I left a message on their press coordinator’s extension.

While I waited for someone to return my call, I tried to sort through the thoughts tumbling around in my head. What I kept coming back to was this: My best friend was generous, but she wasn’t dumb. What if Olivia had figured out Rachel was pregnant and demanded she take some sort of paternity test? I was pretty certain they could now do DNA tests on unborn fetuses. Or maybe Olivia hadn’t known about the pregnancy but found a used condom or some other evidence that Rachel had been sleeping with someone else in her apartment and sent that evidence away to get tested? Say she busted Rachel on Friday night. They fought. But then what? Rachel hadn’t killed Olivia, so how did her pregnancy fit into all of this?

“Hi Clyde,” said a voice behind me. “Are you busy?” Sabine handed me one of the two coffees in her hand. She looked tired, her hair was messy, and her eye makeup was smudged. She also had that new-love glow. “Thought you could use one,” she said.

I caught her eyes flicking to my computer screen so I quickly clicked the back button on my browser. I lifted the lid off the cup. “Thanks for the java. Can’t seem to get enough this morning.”

She propped herself up against my desk and I tried not to remember what she looked like, bare-breasted, in Alex’s arms last night. I tried even harder not to hate her.
Oh shit
, I groaned inwardly. Was Georgia right? Was I falling for Alex?

“Did you have fun last night?” she asked, yawning, oblivious to my inner turmoil and the thirty lashes I was mentally administering to myself at that moment.

“Been to one, been to them all,” I managed.

Sabine toyed with her hair. “Mike Fischer is quite the charmer.”

He was undoubtedly that and whole lot more, but I didn’t have time for office gossip. Not today. Swiveling back toward my computer, itching to get back to my research, I lifted my cup. “Thanks again. If I need you for anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Actually, there is one thing I wanted to ask you?” Her voice was tentative.

I swung back around to face her, hoping she didn’t want to commiserate with me about her night of endless passion or get my take on the politics of intra-office dating. “As long as it doesn’t have anything to do with Alex,” I said.

“It doesn’t. At least, not really.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“The thing is, I’ve really enjoyed working with you these last couple of weeks, and he suggested that I ask you to become my mentor. I know I can learn a lot from you.”

“Wouldn’t you rather ask someone like Georgia? I’m assuming you have on-camera aspirations.” All pretty young girls in television do, whether they admit to it or not. I had, for a time, until I proved myself incapable.

“I might like to try going on-air one day, but right now I need to understand what it takes to nail a story. You’re the best around at nurturing sources and following leads. Everyone here says so.”

I couldn’t help feeling flattered, and despite the mountain of research I had to do, I invited her to sit down. “I’d love to be your mentor, Sabine. Later this week we should grab lunch, just the two of us. You can tell me more about where you see yourself in five years.” I hadn’t forgotten my original intention of helping her. Even though I wasn’t in a position to promote her, I could ask Georgia or Wallace to give her more responsibilities. My phone rang, interrupting us. It was Panda, and his tone was all business. “What in the hell were you doing breaking into Olivia Kravis’s apartment last night?”

I covered the receiver with my hand. “Sabine, do you mind if we finish up later? I need to take this call.”

She slid off my desk. “Sure, of course, later.”

I watched her prance happily across the bullpen to her cubicle. “Who turned me in?” I whispered.

“Who do you think?”

The only person who could have: Andrey. The bastard sold me out. “The doorman and I, we—” I began to say.

“I know.”

I cringed. Panda knew I’d hooked up with the doorman on a dirty couch. “Neal, I was drinking. I made a mistake.”

“You’re damn right you did.” He was pissed at me, and rightfully so.

“Andrey and Rachel were sleeping together,” I said, changing the subject. “He admitted that to me last night. Rachel was using Olivia to pay for her legal bills. Plus, last night, the chairman of my company warned me off investigating a connection between Olivia’s murder and the merger with Maldone Enterprises. She said Olivia wasn’t opposed to the deal, but who knows?”

“Hold up, Clyde. I get that Olivia was your friend. You want to see that whoever did this to her gets theirs. But you aren’t a cop. You don’t have access to all the information we do. Let Restivo and Ehlers do their jobs. Believe me when I tell you they
will
solve these murders.”

I wish I had his faith. I’d been in the business long enough to know things didn’t always turn out that way. Killers went free. Some families never got justice. I took a deep breath, forcing my brain to slow down and the hysteria out of my voice. “When I was in Olivia’s apartment last night, I found something,” I said levelly. “An envelope from a company called Orchid Cellmark. Postmarked a week before her murder. They do DNA testing. Forensics. They’re the guys that solved that cold case in London, the one involving the woman who was raped and stabbed forty-nine times in that square, right in front of her little boy.”

Panda coughed. “Where are you headed with this?”

“What if she knew Rachel and Andrey were sleeping together but wanted proof?” After spending more than a decade covering crime, I’d learned two things: One, proof is everything; and two, trust your gut.

“Rachel was just ten weeks, not even showing. How could Olivia test her lover’s unborn child?”

“You can test the fetus. Obviously it’s more complicated than a cheek swab, but it’s possible. Does Ehlers know the father is Andrey?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Panda had trusted me with knowledge far more sensitive than this for years. “Why not?” I demanded.

“Because you’re wanted for questioning.”

“Me?”

“You broke into a murder victim’s home.”

I could have tried denying it—it would have been Andrey’s word against mine— but my fingerprints, which the PD had on file, were all over that key box, Olivia’s apartment, and the bottle of vodka I’d left behind. Long story short, ten years ago, long before I’d gotten my shit together, I’d been thrown in the slammer for disorderly conduct and public nudity. It hadn’t been my finest hour, and neither was last night.

“Why didn’t you guys find this envelope when you searched the apartment?” I asked.

“Despite what you see on TV, the crime-scene investigators don’t have enough time to put every piece of trash under a microscope.”

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “This isn’t trash. How can you not see DNA testing as significant?”

Panda relented. “OK, kid, let’s talk this through. You’re the detective, right? You’ve got the body; you’ve got the fetus. What do you do next?”

“I’d see if the DNA from the semen found in Rachel’s autopsy matches any other DNA picked up from the crime scene. Then I’d see if there was a match with the fetus. And then I’d run it through CODIS.” CODIS was the national database of DNA profiles from convicted felons and missing persons.

“Good.”

“What did Ehlers find?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said wearily. “And you’re gonna have to hand that envelope to Ehlers. Don’t even think about plastering it on TV.”

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I’m off the story.”

“Then what are you doing asking me questions about what my partner knows?” Panda growled. “Christ, Shaw! Give Ehlers the envelope. Don’t put it on air. And I’ll see what I can do to make this go away.”

I’d never heard him lose his temper before, and it left me feeling off-balance. “Anything else?” I asked.

“A thank you would be nice,” he grumbled, softening finally.

“Thank you.”

“When Ehlers comes by, offer him something to drink this time. That fancy network of yours can spare a can of soda.”

“Wait, he’s coming here? No!” If Ehlers came to the offices to see me, Diskin would be notified and demand that Hiro Itzushi be present for my questioning. Then everyone would find out I’d almost slept with a source and broken into Olivia’s apartment. Both were clear violations of our ethics code. Best case, I’d get written up. Worst case, I’d get fired without severance. My second line beeped. I recognized the extension: Human Resources. This wasn’t good. “I gotta go,” I told Panda.

“Listen kid, I’ll talk to Ehlers. But make sure you check in with him in the next hour, and don’t run. You know enough about how this stuff works to make that mistake.”

I said goodbye; Panda wished me good luck.

The way I saw it, I had two choices: Give Ehlers the envelope and avoid getting arrested and further drawing the ire of the police, or give it to Diskin to put it on air, and have a shot at keeping my job. Audiences loved anything related to DNA, and this envelope was proof that Olivia was on to Rachel and Andrey’s affair. Hand over the envelope, maybe keep my freedom. Give it to Diskin, maybe keep my job. Either way, I lost something.

I needed time to think, which meant I needed to disappear—just for a few hours, until I could figure out what to do. I grabbed my trench off the back of my chair, slid the envelope from Orchid Cellmark in my pocket, my computer in my handbag, and my Rolodex under my arm. Then I made a run for the elevator.

I
didn’t get very far. “Come on,” I muttered, jabbing the elevator’s down button again. The door finally pinged open and I lunged inside.

“Hey, where are you going?” I spun around. Alex was leaning against the elevator door so it couldn’t close.

“Can you move?”

He stepped inside with me. “Aren’t we supposed to be going to the Haverford?” The door closed. We were alone. He pulled my trench coat open with the crook of his index finger and saw the Rolodex. His playful expression turned serious. “What’s going on?”

I watched the floor numbers descending. If I could just get out of the front doors, I’d be home free for the time being. “Oberlink is your new producer,” I said.

Alex’s frown deepened. “Back up. What’s happening? All I heard was that I was supposed to be in the truck. Does this have anything to do with me taking Sabine to the benefit last night?”

I had to laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. Believe it or not I have bigger problems than your proclivity for public sex.”

He looked at me, confused.

I arched an eyebrow. “Next time make sure the door is shut all the way when you’re screwing my assistant on a conference table.”

He ran his fingers down his face. “You saw us?”

The elevator door slid open. We were in the lobby. I walked at a normal pace, my eyes focused on the door, my heart thudding in my chest. Alex followed me onto the sidewalk. “Can you just wait a second?”

“No.” I flagged down a cab. It pulled up, idling.

I yanked open the door.

Alex wedged himself between the door and me.

“You getting in?” yelled the cabbie.

“Give us a second, man,” Alex said.

“Move,” I hissed.

“I’m coming with you.”

The cabbie yelled at us again. “In or out?”

“In,” Alex and I screamed back in unison. I dove into the backseat, Alex climbed in after me. I gave the driver my home address and put my Rolodex on the seat between us.

Alex turned to me, expectant.

“You’re better off not knowing.”

“Try me.”

I looked out the window. It was an unseasonably warm day for early November—probably the city’s last taste of temperate weather before the cold set in for good. I fished my phone out of my bag. And took a moment to gather my courage before dialing Restivo. A few seconds later, his gravelly baritone was in my ear. “What a coincidence. We were gonna come pay you a visit. I’ve always wanted to see what the Sixth Circle looks like.” He was referencing Dante Alighieri’s Circles of Hell, where heretics spent eternity in fiery graves.

“It’s nice of you to make the trip, but I’m not at work,” I said.

“Yeah, I bet.”

“I have something to give you.”

Alex elbowed me. “What?” he wrote on his pad, holding it up in my face.

I snatched the pen and pad from him and threw them on the floor of the taxi.

“You unlawfully entered a crime scene,” Restivo continued in my ear. “You tampered with crucial evidence related to an ongoing criminal investigation.” He was wrong about calling Olivia’s apartment a crime scene. There hadn’t been any police tape over the door, meaning the cops no longer considered it active. Still, I wasn’t in a position to squabble over details. I was guilty of unlawful entry, crime scene or not, and they could book me on that charge alone if they wanted. “I’m no Tom Brokaw but I’m guessing that breaking the law is a fireable offense.”