Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery (29 page)

He turned back to the stove, where two filet mignons were sizzling on a pan. He flipped them over, picked up a whisk, and started emulsifying the eggs and butter together for the sauce.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

He started chopping the herbs on his cutting board. “Shoot.”

I migrated to the couch. “Why Sabine? Aside from the obvious reasons.”

He didn’t answer straight away. Finally, he asked with his head cocked to one side, “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m a journalist. I’m curious by nature.”

He pointed his big knife at me. “And nosy.”

“That too.”

“You really want to know?”

I nodded. “That’s why I asked.”

“She’s easy. And I don’t mean it the way you think I do.”

Easy
, that was a good word to describe what most men wanted: pretty and uncomplicated. On a good day, I could pass for pretty, but I’d never be uncomplicated.

Alex wiped his hands on a striped tea towel and sat down next to me on the couch. “I got a call from Olivia’s assistant.”

“Emma?”

“She was trying to reach you at the bureau, but they already shut down your voicemail. The desk sent her to me.”

“What did she want?”

“She said Olivia didn’t take a taxi the Wednesday before she was killed. She took a hired car. The bill came in yesterday.”

I sat up straighter. “We didn’t know where she went. She was gone all afternoon on personal business, but we didn’t know what she was doing.”

“Emma gave me the number for the car service Olivia took.”

“And?”

“I called over there. The dispatcher said she was taken to an address in New Jersey. I looked it up, and—“

I beat him to the punch. “Orchid Cellmark. The DNA lab.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

I told him about the envelope, the call from Catherine Feinberg, and my visit to Maldone’s office. When I was finished, he asked if I’d gotten any updates from the police about my apartment.

“I spoke briefly with Restivo before you came home. They’re still processing the scene. Right now they’re treating it as part of Olivia’s case and since he’s lead detective, he’s my go-to. But when I asked him about Kaminski’s arrest, he refused to give me any other info. He said I had to go through the IO for anything like that. It’s bullshit since I’m not even covering the case anymore.”

He shook his head. “What’s bullshit is that you’re getting fired.”

I shrugged. “What can I do at this point?”

“Don’t sign anything in Feinberg’s office. They have to at least give you twenty-four hours. I’ll take a look at the documents they give you.”

“I don’t want a fight.” If I made trouble, it would get around to other networks. Not that it mattered at this point. I was already going to have to move to Topeka to find work.

The steaks were done. Alex brought them to the table with the rest of the food. We ate our meals quickly. Neither of us had much appetite, although the food was delicious and I told Alex so. “You should let me cook for you more often,” he said. “Under better circumstances.”

“I’d like that.” I stood to clear the dishes. I knew I couldn’t trust myself around him much longer.

Alex followed me to the sink. “I was there when Diskin told you to go after the story. They can’t fire you for following his orders. And if they do, when it comes time to negotiate my new contract, I’m going to fight to bring you back. This situation is only temporary. I won’t let you take the brunt of this, Clyde.”

I was touched by his desire to help, surprised by it, too, but I knew he was making a promise he couldn’t keep. I finished the dishes and took to the couch. Outside the sliding-glass doors, the sky was inky black behind the illuminated bridge. There were no stars visible, just a sliver of moon hovering over the East River. I thought of my mother and of the darkness that sometimes clouded her face when she’d come into my bedroom long after I was supposed to have fallen asleep. She’d sit on the edge of my bed and just stare out my bedroom window for what felt like hours. Even before she killed herself, I’d known there was something wrong, something that eventually forced her onto our fire escape and down to a horrific death.

Alex brought out a pile of fresh sheets and blankets and began making a bed for me on his couch. I spied a box of chocolates on the coffee table that hadn’t been there before. “Are those for me?” I asked, pouncing on the gold ballotin.

He fluffed an afghan over the length of the couch. “Those are actually for—”

“Sabine.”

“I was planning on going over to her place.”

“So late?” It was close to midnight.

“She didn’t exactly love the idea of you sleeping over.” He grabbed his keys, cell, and blazer and hovered by the door. “You keep the chocolates.”

“No way. They’re for her.” I threw them in his direction, harder than intended.

The corner caught his chest. “Ow!”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Geez Shaw.” He gave me a small smile. “You hit hard for a girl.”

I remembered my previous reply: “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” He let himself out, and I fell into my makeshift bed. Sleep couldn’t come fast enough.

Wednesday

Wednesday

T
hat night I dreamt that I was back in that super’s office, on that ratty couch with Andrey, my back arching and fingers digging into the muscles of his back as I climaxed. Afterward, he lit a cigarette with a match and in the light of the flame I glimpsed Olivia and Rachel’s bodies. They were lined up one next to the other, naked, their eyes glassy and lips blue and cracked. And there was a strong, almost overwhelming smell—a putrid mix of decomposition and human feces—I hadn’t noticed until that moment. How had I missed it? I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. I tried to move to no avail. And there was Andrey, standing now before me acting as though nothing were wrong, telling me I could take my time getting dressed.

When I woke I was covered in sweat, freezing cold, and I couldn’t shake the feelings of guilt and fear that had paralyzed me in my dream. I stared at the ceiling for an hour, maybe more, trying to will myself back to sleep before I gave up and reached for my phone. It was 5 a.m. I thought I might as well get the day started.

On the way to the bathroom I passed by Alex’s room. I’d expected to find it empty, but Alex must have come home in the middle of the night because he was asleep in his bed, chest down, his body uncovered to just above his rear end. I allowed myself one longing glance at the two dimples at his lower back.

In the kitchen I found flour, butter, milk, and eggs and began whipping them together. Pancakes were one of the only things I knew how to make, and I wanted to reciprocate for dinner the night before. I’d ladled my first two circles of batter and was looking for maple syrup in the fridge when the fire alarm went off. Alex appeared suddenly at his bedroom door and raced to the stove. Grabbing a tea towel, he pulled the pan off the burner and tossed it into the sink.

“I can’t believe it. I left it for one second,” I said.

He ran the tap over the pan. Smoke rose between us. He was wearing nothing but a bed sheet, his bare torso once again putting all sorts of thoughts into my head, thoughts I’d already taken a cold shower to try to forget. “What were you cooking?” he asked.

“Pancakes, unless the smoke has totally put you off. Maybe we should just get bagels.”

“You’ll have to work a lot harder than that to put me off.” He took my coffee cup off the kitchen counter and took a sip. I turned around and got to work on a new batch with a fresh pan. Alex stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth rising from his body. “I see what your problem is now,” he said, reaching around me to turn down the stove’s burner. His hand grazed my hip.

“It’s the flame,” he said. His body pressed into mine.

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, not daring to move an inch.

“It’s on too high,” he said into my neck.

I finally turned around. There was hunger in his eyes. I’m sure it was in mine, too. He inched closer, his hand on my hip. “Alex, I—“

The doorbell rang. We both jumped. “I’ll go see who it is. Don’t move,” he said.

Alex looked into the peephole before opening the door. It took Sabine all of one second to notice Alex’s bare chest, his T-shirt on my body, and the heady tension still suspended in the air. “Good morning,” she said in her too-bright voice, her long hair gliding over her shoulders as she lifted the paper bag in her hand. “I brought bagels.”

I turned back to the pancakes, not trusting my face. Alex went back to his room to shower and dress. He left, closing his bedroom door behind him, something he hadn’t bothered to do since I’d gotten there. Sabine hovered by the table emitting nervous energy.

I was really too old for this. I took a sip of coffee and turned around. “I’m going back to my place today, Sabine. The police must be done with it by now. There’s nothing going on here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried.” She did her best not to sound hostile. “I just wanted to say you could come stay with me. I’ve got a couch.”

I poured another circle of batter. “All I want is to be back in my own place, surrounded by my own things.” Not that there was that much that was salvageable in my apartment.

We were both quiet. I finished making my pancakes; she set out her bagels. I heard the squeak of the shower water being turned off. Alex reappeared in his bedroom doorway fully dressed. “Who’s hungry?”

Sabine put a bagel on her plate and one on Alex’s. “I got you sesame and cream cheese, lightly toasted. Alex took a seat at the table. Sabine slid into his lap. Behind her, Alex gave me an apologetic look.

It was my cue to leave. I looked at my watch. “It’s later than I thought.”

My pancakes were left to cool on the countertop as I scuttled off to the bathroom to change my clothes, then I was out the door to face my future.

Catherine Feinberg was waiting for me at the appointed time in an eighteenth-floor conference room. It was decorated in a beige grass wall covering, abstract oil paintings, and a heavy walnut table big enough to accommodate twenty people, although there were only four of us that day: Catherine, Mitchell Diskin, Hiro Itzushi and me.

“Please take a seat, Cornelia.” Catherine had the look of a lifelong paper-pusher—pallid skin, frown lines, a brown tweed skirt suit that proclaimed a distinct lack of imagination. Before her lay a file folder marked with my name.

I nodded hello at Diskin and Itzushi as I chose a chair.

Feinberg spoke first. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I have an idea,” I acknowledged.

Itzushi cleared his throat. “It has come to the network’s attention that you illegally entered Olivia Kravis’s home Monday evening. Is this correct?”

I conceded the point only partially. “It’s true I was in her apartment on Monday night.”

Itzushi scribbled something on the yellow legal pad in front of him. “Did you have permission from the owner of the apartment to enter it?”

I shook my head.

“Is it also correct that you procured a key to the Kravis apartment from the superintendent’s office at the Haverford, and that you gained access to the aforementioned office through Andrey Kaminski, a source you interviewed for air and with whom you have developed a relationship that could be categorized as inappropriate?”

“Define inappropriate for Miss Shaw,” Feinberg clucked.

Itzushi referred to another stack of papers to his right. “All FirstNews employees are discouraged from engaging in sexual or romantic relations with sources, and are, moreover, required to make such relationships known to the appropriate parties so that correct actions or steps may be taken to eliminate the existence or appearance of a conflict of interest.” He looked up at me. “Your relationship with Andrey Kaminski suggests a breach in the code of conduct which you, and every FirstNews employee, have signed as a condition of employment at this network. Is this true or untrue?”

I blinked. “I’m sorry, what exactly are you asking me?”

Feinberg snorted. “Did you or did you not have sexual relations with Olivia Kravis’s murderer?”

“Alleged murderer,” Itzushi interjected.

“Is she really asking me that?” I asked Diskin.

Itzushi put his hand on Catherine’s sleeve. “I think what’s important here is to establish exactly what happened, while at the same time respecting Cornelia’s privacy.”

I shifted in my chair. “I’d like to point out that technically, at the time, Kaminski wasn’t my source. Naomi Zell had already informed me that I was going to be reassigned to another case. It is my understanding that Barton Oberlink was already the lead producer on the case.”

Catherine Feinberg and Hiro Itzushi glanced at each other. For a moment, I thought I had them, but then Diskin rapped his Montblanc on the table. “Your relationship with this source isn’t why you’re here, Shaw,” he boomed. “The reason why you are here is because you broke into an apartment. You broke the law.”

My neck itched beneath the collar of my jacket. I couldn’t believe he was leading the charge against me; I thought he’d be the one person I could trust at this meeting. “Every day at this network, producers make unethical calls to get access to the information they need or book guests they want. We say we don’t pay for interviews, but we do pay for first-class airline tickets, hotel suites, fancy dinners, and Broadway shows. And what about the time Greg Lanier hacked into that sports agent’s voicemail? As I recall, he got a promotion for landing that baseball doping story. You and I both know the only time anyone ever seems to get in trouble around here is when they get caught. Not one week ago we were sitting in your office—Itzushi was there, he knows this—and you told me in no uncertain terms to pursue this story through any means necessary.”