Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery (9 page)

What ended up haunting me most about my mother’s death were not these things, but the afternoons I spent alone in her room, turning every pocket inside out, emptying every drawer, and always, without fail, coming away with nothing. At some point I must have realized she’d left us no answers, just aching loss and the vicious anger I’d eventually turn on myself.

Despite what I’d just promised my father, I wasn’t going to let that happen with Olivia.

The Monday morning meeting was the bane of my existence. I slumped down in my chair and did my best to get comfortable for what was sure to be another hour-long confab in the cheerless chamber that was Conference Room B. Barely big enough to accommodate the oval Formica table and twelve chairs it held within, there were no windows in the room, just a pair of sputtering vents and a strip of fluorescent lights hugging the ceiling tiles. Conference Room A, on the other hand, was a spacious, window-lined room outfitted in leather and glossed mahogany furniture. It was reserved for meetings with important advertisers, network heads, and skittish guests who needed a little hand-holding before they agreed to go on camera.

I should have been listening, but my mind was on who might have called me from Olivia’s office that morning. Jon Wallace, Georgia’s executive producer who went by his last name, pointed at me, snapping his meaty fingers impatiently. “Earth to Clyde. Could you be so kind as to honor us with a rundown of the Kravis story?” He was well aware of my feelings about the Monday morning meeting, and apparently not inclined to cut me any slack for being the victim’s best friend.

I recounted to the group everything that we’d learned so far. Some crime-scene info, a few leads. A lot of questions.

“We’ll want a couple in-house guests. A prosecutor and a family member,” Wallace said.

“We’re getting Delphine Lamont, Olivia’s stepsister. I’m waiting on confirmation from legal that we’re a go for tonight,” I replied, my eyes not lifting from my notebook paper. “As for Rachel Rockwell’s side of it, her husband’s a definite no and Frank Uffizo, the Rockwells’ attorney, is a long shot. I’ve already called him a few times.”

“He’s talking to
Today
,” piped up Barton Oberlink, one of our senior bookers. “Word is Lauer’s interviewing him tomorrow a.m.”

“I knew it,” I said, swearing under my breath. Aside from being able to identify Rachel Rockwell before anyone else, we weren’t as far ahead of the competition on the story as my bosses would have liked. GSBC had scooped us on purple fur, CNN on the number of blows Olivia had sustained—twenty-seven—and now
Today
was landing Uffizo.

Wallace leaned back in his chair, his arms spread wide. “Well, anyone got any other ideas?”

I looked up. “The Kravis Foundation. Olivia’s assistant might give us an interview, help establish a timeline for Friday.”

Wallace rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Who’s got the timeline?”

“I’m working on it,” I replied.

“What else we got?”

The team debated our strategy while I marked the time on the wall. I was itching to hit the pavement, but, as much as I didn’t want to be holed up in an airless conference room, meetings were an important part of my job. I couldn’t afford to be cast as anything but a team player.

I’d worked my way up over the years, cultivating sources inside the New York, Washington, D.C., Chicago, L.A., and San Francisco police forces, plus a Rolodex full of the best private investigators, psychologists, and medical examiners. I’d landed exclusive interviews in the investigation of Natalee Holloway’s disappearance, the Laci Peterson and Caylee Anthony stories, and countless other national crime sagas. If I was ever going to move my career to the next level, I needed to show my worth beyond landing the occasional blockbuster interview. I was on the wrong side of thirty-five, and even for those of us behind the camera, you can only be young and hot for so long.

Sabine Weller was both. Diskin’s most recent hire, she was twenty-something and curvaceous, with a face that looked camera-ready at every angle. Suddenly she was in the doorway in a formfitting sweater dress, her cheeks flushed. “Alex just called,” she said to me. “He’s got a woman who says she saw Rachel arguing on Friday night with a man.”

“What time did she spot them?” I questioned.

Sabine shook her head. “Alex didn’t say.”

“Take a camera,” Wallace said to me, standing up. “Meeting adjourned.”

Running out the door, I grabbed my bag and jacket from my desk and met my team—minus Alex, who was already waiting for us at the scene—in the van. A few minutes later we’d gotten around the snarl of west Midtown traffic and were sailing uptown. I took advantage of the drive time to make a call. The neighbors Sabine had managed to corral for our show last night weren’t friends of Rachel and Michael Rockwell. They’d provided good sound bites, but little in the way of useful information. What we needed was a real Greenwich insider—or close friend—who could give us the skinny on the couple’s relationship. Why did they break up? Was he mean? Was she a drunk? Did they fight over money or sex or both? And did those fights ever get out of control?

I dialed Sutton Danziger. She was the alumni-relations officer for my class at Livingston. Her husband did something arcane and extraordinarily lucrative in finance, and they lived in one of those gigantic homes you see listed in real-estate advertisements with an asking price equal to the GDP of a small country. Knowing Sutton, she belonged to the same posh Connecticut country club as Rachel and Michael Rockwell.

Sutton answered her cellphone after a few rings. She asked me four questions with the space of ten seconds:
Can you believe it? How are you doing? How is her family taking it? Have you spoken to Delphine?

“Not yet,” I said.

Diskin had just texted that Delphine was confirmed for a taped interview in one of our studios at three o’clock that afternoon. Alex was conducting the interview, which would then be edited in time to air during
Topical’s
broadcast at nine.

“The school should do something in her memory,” Sutton sighed. “The alumni association will send a wreath for the funeral, but we should do something more substantial. I’m thinking a dedication during graduation ceremonies.”

“I’m sure the Kravises would like that,” I said.

“Would you be willing to give a speech?”

I demurred. Most people assumed I was a natural public speaker because of what I did, but it actually terrified me to say more than three words in front of a large group.

“Olivia and you were inseparable. You have to do this.”

Sutton wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I told her I’d do it if she’d answer a few of my questions.

“What kind of questions?” she asked.

“Did you see last night’s broadcast?”

She hesitated before apologizing. “I watch Greta.”

At least she was honest. “Well, then you probably already know that Olivia entertained a guest at her apartment the night she was murdered. A woman named Rachel Rockwell, who lives in Greenwich. Do you know Rachel?”

There was a long pause. “I’m afraid I don’t know her personally,” Sutton began. “But I know who she is and I have a friend who knows her quite well.” The way Sutton said
quite
, I knew I’d hit pay dirt. “This friend of mine will be at a dinner I’m hosting tonight. If you want, I could ask her if she’s interested in speaking with you, and get back to you tomorrow.”

Although a dinner party in Greenwich wasn’t how I wanted to spend my evening, I couldn’t rely on Sutton to land me an interview with Rachel’s friend. The stakes were too high.

“Would it be possible if I came by and asked her myself? I don’t have to stay for dinner.”

There was another pause as Sutton considered my request. I couldn’t blame her. The last time she saw me was about five years ago. I was thirty-one, sloshed out of my mind, wearing a face of smeared makeup and a dress that showed more than it should. I’d also just had sex on her bed with her twenty-year-old baby brother.

“Sutton, I’ll be coming from work,” I said. “And on my best behavior.”

She relented with a weary sigh. “As it happens, my numbers are off. One of my husband’s friends is recently divorced. You can sit next to him.”

“Sounds great,” I lied.

“We’re here,” Aaron announced from the front seat. The van pulled in to an open spot. I told Sutton I had to go and hung up. Alex opened the door from the outside. “What took you so long?” His face split into a wide grin. Damn, he was handsome.

I looked up at the woman’s building. It was a five-story walkup. “Which floor?”

“Fifth.”

“Of course it is,” Dino grumbled.

We all helped carry the equipment upstairs. Her apartment was one of those railroad units, a narrow row of rooms, front to back. High ceilings, old creaky floors, the stench of yesterday’s fish dinner mingling with the neighbor’s cigarette smoke. “Can someone open a window?” I asked, narrowly sidestepping a little dog that was yapping at my feet.

“Bad Riley.” A woman, forty-ish, with short brown hair and a slender figure, scooped the dog up in her arms and held out her hand. “I was taking Riley for a walk when I saw that woman. I saw her picture on your show.”

“Rachel Rockwell.” I motioned to the couch. We both sat down. “You sure it was her?”

The woman nodded.

“The man she was with. What did he look like?”

“He was tall. Good-looking. Reminded me of that actor. The one on
Sex and the City
?”

“Chris Noth?”

She furrowed her brows.

“He played Mr. Big?” Michael Rockwell bore a small resemblance to him, especially in the dark and at a distance.

“No, the other one. Aidan.” The dog leaped off the woman’s lap and onto the floor. He sprinted toward the woman’s bedroom, at the back end of the apartment where Dino was setting up a shot with Jen and Alex.

“What time was it?” I asked. I was reasonably sure I could get time of death from Panda. If this lady had seen Rachel after Olivia was killed, that could be significant.

“Around eleven thirty.”

“You told my colleague they were arguing.”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t really hear. It was late. I honestly just wanted to get home. I’m a nurse at a hospital and I’d been on my feet since five.”

“How are you so sure it was Rachel you saw?”

“It looked like her.”

“Do you remember what she was wearing?”

She shook her head. “She wasn’t wearing that coat, if that’s what you want to know. Bet she ditched that at the crime scene.”

She was a fan, one of our armchair detectives who watched every night and dreamed of meeting Georgia face to face. I raised my eyebrow. “Have you talked to the police?”

He chin lifted an inch. “Not yet. I got up late this morning and saw that woman’s picture. First thing I did was call your hotline.”

“You probably should go ahead and call the police after we’re done here,” I told her.

“We’re all set,” Dino called from the other room. The woman stood, excitement flashing across her face. My gut told me she had convinced herself she saw something she hadn’t. For the network’s purposes, that didn’t matter. For mine, it sure as hell did. Either way, I needed to find out Olivia’s time of death.

An hour later we were out the door. Another half hour and I was back at my desk, waiting for Panda to get back to me, chicken-salad sandwich in hand. I was about to unwrap it when a man appeared in my cubicle. He was dressed in a navy windbreaker and rumpled khakis. He had a buzz cut and a beefy build.

“May I help you?”

“Clyde Shaw?” he asked in reply.

I visually scanned his jacket and hands for one of the stick-on visitors’ passes security would have given him downstairs. My posture stiffened when I realized he didn’t have one. “Who let you in here?”

He unzipped his jacket. I clutched the sides of my chair, preparing to hurl myself out of it. There were plenty of nut jobs who blamed the media for everything wrong in our world, and a scary number of those would like nothing more than to gun a few of us down.

The man produced a police badge. “Detective John Ehlers. We have a friend in common.”

Ehlers. Panda’s partner. I’d never met him in person. My shoulders relaxed away from my ears. “So we do.”

“There a place we can talk?”

I led him to Conference Room A. It was located along a hall that didn’t get a lot of foot traffic. With any luck, my tête-à-tête with the detective would go unnoticed. I offered him a bottle of water and took a seat at the table. Ehlers chose to remain standing next to the window, looking out at the view over Seventh Avenue. “I understand you knew Olivia Kravis,” he said in a heavy Long Island accent. Panda had once told me that Ehlers was passionate about two things, sailing and dogs, and that he was the youngest of eight, most of whom worked in civil service or on the force. They were a tight-knit, community-minded, big family—the kind I’d always dreamed of having.

“I did know Olivia,” I said.

“She sent you a message the night she was murdered.”

“What?” My hand reflexively went to the pearls at my neck. “No she didn’t.”

He repeated himself.

“Are you talking about the voicemail she left me?”

Ehlers shook his head. “She sent you a text. May I see your phone, Ms. Shaw?” It was more command than question.

Normally I wouldn’t let a police officer within ten feet of my phone—freedom of the press and all—but this was Olivia’s case, and Ehlers was my ally for as long as he was trying to find her murderer.

I took my phone out of my jacket, entered in the security code, and slid it across the table. Ehlers sat down, picked up my phone, and began tapping and dragging his finger down the screen. He was either looking through my texts or emails.

“When did it come in?” I asked.

“How about you let me go first with the questions?”

I spread my arms. “Be my guest.”

His fingers stopped moving. He slid the phone back across the table. “Can you explain that?” There was a text from Olivia. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I read her message.