Sweet Little Lies (11 page)

“Did you ever meet his wife?”

Roy shook his head before letting it drop to his chest. “No. I couldn’t make the wedding cause I was laid up in the hospital with a broken leg,” he mumbled, his voice cracking. “We was working our way back together. Even talked about him coming for a visit, me coming up here one day soon. Reconnect.”

“Was your brother the type to play the field?”

“Mark? Um, well…damn. I’m not even gonna front, he definitely got around, but…I mean, when they got married, I got the impression all of that stopped.”

Hanson stared at Roy briefly before he continued. “What had he told you about his wife?”

Roy gave a non-committal shrug. “Not much. He said she was a really nice lady and that she made him happy. He liked her family. I mean from everything I could tell, he was set.” Roy stopped. “Did she really kill him?”

Hanson rubbed the side of his face. “Well, we’re still waiting for the autopsy results, but it looks like she was responsible. He was stepping out, and she found out about it.”

“Are you sure? I mean, there ain’t no mistake?”

Hanson nodded. “Yeah. We found evidence that supports it.”

Roy leaned against the metal back of the chair and exhaled the air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Son of a bitch.”

P
ortia Walker was an extremely meticulous person, both in her personal and professional lives. Her closet was color-coordinated, she knew exactly how many number ten envelopes she kept in her desk, and balanced her checkbook to the penny each and every time she used it. Nothing got past her, which was why she was so good at her job. Mr. Monroe was always telling her what an asset she was. Pleasing him pleased her.

If only…

Portia was so jealous of her boss’ wife. She was so beautiful, and people just naturally liked her. Not like Portia, who made people uncomfortable with her shyness, awkwardness, and sometimes condescending demeanor. What Portia really hated was how nice Mrs. Monroe was. As long as Portia had been Mr. Monroe’s administrative assistant, Mrs. Monroe always sent her the most beautiful and thoughtful birthday, Christmas, and Secretary Day’s gifts. A spa day at Kiva, five thousand dollar gift certificates to Neiman Marcus, Nordstrom, or Saks, tickets to shows. That’s what made it so hard to hate her, but Portia did. She had loved Mark Monroe the minute she’d been assigned to work for him. So handsome and so nice. She often fantasized about what it would be like to be his wife, to go home to him every night, have dinner together, have little jokes between them…make love to each other. She hadn’t stopped crying since she heard he’d been murdered. How could Mrs. Monroe do that to that wonderful man? She had never deserved him or his love.

Portia shook her head as she got off the elevator and walked over to her cubicle. She frowned. Her Kleenex box was turned ever so slightly. Just as she was about to turn it back to its original position, her phone rang with an internal call. It was Brad Banks, managing partner.

“Yes, Mr. Banks?”

“Portia, can you come down to my office, please?”

“Right away, sir.”

Portia placed her purse on the floor underneath her desk and grabbed her steno pad before rushing down the hall to Mr. Banks’ corner office. She saw a man and a woman sitting on the couch.

The tall, dark-haired, square-jawed, Brad Banks rose from his mahogany desk and gestured to Bill Hanson and Didi Martin.

“Portia, these are Detectives Hanson and Martin. They’re investigating Mr. Monroe’s death and would like to ask you some questions.”

Portia nodded, nervous about what they might ask her about Mrs. Monroe. “Of course.”

The male detective smiled at her. “Good morning, Ms. Walker. Sorry to be bothering you so early in the morning, but we find the first forty-eight hours to be the most critical in an investigation.” He gestured to the seat across from him.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Portia scurried over and sat down, timid as a mouse, in the overstuffed beige chair. She saw out of the corner of her eye that Brad Banks had perched on the corner of his desk, intending to listen to every word. It gave her a small comfort, knowing he was staying in the room.

“Ms. Walker, how long did you work for Mark Monroe?”

“Five years. Ever since I came to work here.”

“What was he like?”

“Oh, he was a wonderful man. I couldn’t have asked for a better boss. Very generous. Kind. Highly organized, and he gave excellent direction on projects.”

Hanson nodded. “How well did you know Mrs. Monroe?”

Portia hoped the small flicker of hate she felt rise up wasn’t visible. She cleared her throat. “I knew her because of Mr. Monroe, of course. She was very nice. She always gave me very nice gifts.”

“Did Mr. Monroe make any unusual trips or phone calls?” Didi asked.

Portia shook her head slightly, a confused look on her face. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Ms. Walker, this is a rather delicate matter, but I have to ask. Was Mark Monroe having an affair?” Didi asked.

Portia gasped. “Oh, goodness no! He just wasn’t that kind of man. He would never, ever do anything like that! I mean he loved his wife very much!”

Unfortunately for me
.

Hanson pursed his lips together. “So, no strange women calling or strange mail that maybe he wouldn’t want his wife to see?”

“Well, I didn’t answer all of his calls. He had a direct line, and then there were some people who just called him on his cell phone. And as far as mail…I can’t think of anything strange or inappropriate.”

Hanson closed his notebook. “Ms. Walker, you’ve been very helpful. Could you show us Mr. Monroe’s office?”

She nodded and stood. “Certainly.”

“I just want to remind you that you will not have access to any files pertaining to our clients,” Brad Banks chimed in. “Portia can box up anything personal for you.”

Hanson flashed a tight smile. “Of course. Just want to have a look around.”

The group made the short walk down to Mark’s office. Just as Portia reached out to open the door, Hanson held up his hand.

“Just a moment, Ms. Walker. We’ll want to dust the doorknob for fresh prints.”

Portia withdrew her hand as though scalding water had been poured over it. Didi was pulling rubber gloves out of her jacket pocket and, after shoving her hands into them, opened the door to Mark’s office.

“No one touch anything,” Hanson said as he put on his own pair of rubber gloves.

“Does everything look pretty much in order, Ms. Walker?” Didi asked.

Portia glanced around. Everything…wait. She walked slowly over to the couch. The pillows. She had fluffed and positioned them symmetrically before she left on Friday. These were thrown across the sofa as though someone had been using them in a fight. Nothing at all like she’d left them.

She turned to face the detectives. “Well, I don’t know how important this is, but I arrange the couch pillows at the end of each day, and I would never arrange them like this. It looks like someone has been here. I mean other than Mr. Monroe. Because he never sits on the couch. Ever.”

Didi walked over, examining the pillows. “Do you know if Mrs. Monroe had access to this office?”

“Yes, Mr. Monroe gave Mrs. Monroe an access card for the garage and the building.” Portia paused. “Do you think she was here?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“I’d say it’s a pretty good guess,” Hanson mumbled as he looked up at the picture hanging over the couch.

“Do you know if Mr. Monroe was at the office on Saturday?” Didi asked.

“I can answer that,” Brad Banks said. “I came in around one, and Mark was already here. We chatted for a few moments. He came down to say goodbye before he left around four-forty-five.”

Hanson continued to stare at the picture hanging over the couch. He cocked his head to the side. It was crooked. He lifted it up and smiled when he saw the safe.

“You know the combination for this?” he asked Portia over his shoulder.

She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I believe Mr. Monroe kept his personal papers in it.”

Didi had already pulled out her cell phone and was calling for an evidence team and a safecracker to come to the scene. “Mr. Banks, we’re going to need to search this safe. Any objections?”

Brad Banks cleared his throat. “As I said, Portia will be happy to box up anything personal for you. I cannot allow you to see his computer or any other firm files.” Brad looked at Portia. “You’ll see to it that the detectives get Mark’s personal effects?”

“Of course, Mr. Banks.”

Brad gave her a brisk nod as he looked at his watch. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with a client in ten minutes to prepare for. If there’s anything else you need—you have my card.” He turned on his heel and left the room.

K
elly had gotten up at dark–thirty, as she sometimes called it. She paced the tiny room, trying to get her thoughts together.

It had been another sleepless night, filled with images of Mark, his son, and his wife. She had been too tired to make the drive back to the city and wound up staying in Olympia Fields at yet another no-tell motel off the expressway. She only had about another hundred bucks in cash, and she was terrified of using her credit cards, sure they were being traced. Though she had showered yesterday, she was still wearing the same clothes she’d had on since Saturday morning. Once again, she washed her underwear out in the sink, performing the same ritual with the blow dryer as yesterday morning.

She would call Sam Gordon today and beg him to take her case. Throw as much money at him as he would take. But…she had to see them one more time. She couldn’t help it. After all, she was already close by. She looked at her watch. It was seven-fifteen. She grabbed her keys and purse and opened the door.

As she had been doing since Saturday, before she stepped into the hallway, she peered outside to see if anyone was there. She ran to her car, jumped in, and started driving. As soon as she’d checked into the motel, she’d gone to bed, so she hadn’t seen any news. She hadn’t bothered to turn it on this morning, fearful she’d see her face staring at her from the screen.

The radio. See if there were any updates. She switched to the all-news station and swallowed; they were talking about Mark.

“Police continue to search for Kelly Ross, wife of attorney Mark Monroe who was found murdered in his Gold Coast home Saturday evening. Ms. Ross is the prime suspect in the case and was last seen leaving the garage of her building early Saturday evening. According to police, she was spotted at the Sunshine Inn in River North and later at the Walgreens across the street. Ms. Ross is African-American, 5’9” with long, light brown hair. She was wearing a pink shirt and dark pants and is believed to be driving a black Mercedes with Illinois plates CCW 664. If you have seen her, please call Area Three Homicide at 312-555-0237. In other news this morning—”

Kelly snapped off the radio and slapped the steering wheel out of both fear and frustration. Saturday night’s news said the last time anyone had seen her had been yesterday morning; obviously, they’d looked at the security cameras from the service elevator and had seen her pacing relentlessly before she fled. This was getting worse and worse. She took a few deep breaths and realized she was almost to the house. She parked in the same spot she’d parked in yesterday and waited.

The little boy should be going to school soon. Did he walk? Take the school bus? Maybe his mother drove him. The door opened, and he came loping out of the house. His wardrobe had hardly changed from yesterday. Instead of a Bulls Jersey, he now wore a dark blue Fighting Illini one that was about two sizes too big. Of course, that was the style these days. She swallowed over the lump in her throat. Illinois—Mark’s alma mater. He carefully closed the door behind him and began to walk down the street. Kelly fought the urge to follow him. She couldn’t get over how much he looked like Mark.

A few seconds later, Geneva Monroe came waddling out. Kelly slouched down and shook her head.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmured as she took in today’s ensemble, which, unbelievably, was even more outrageous than the one from yesterday. She’d changed her hairpiece to a long, black ponytail, which hung down the length of her iridescent purple overshirt, a black sequined bustier visible beneath the sheer fabric. Her gold lamé stretch pants and gold platform sandals glittered in the early morning sun. It wasn’t even noon, and she looked ready for the club.

Geneva got behind the wheel of her gold Lexus and backed out of the driveway. Kelly laughed quietly to herself. This woman must really like the color gold. She waited about thirty seconds before she started her own car and followed her. She wasn’t even sure why she was doing this. Kelly felt obsessed with this woman, fascinated by her. Geneva drove fast and dangerously, bobbing and weaving between lanes like a boxer, and Kelly found it difficult to keep up without being noticed. She was headed to the city.

It was nine before Geneva exited into Loop morning traffic. She pulled into the parking garage of an office building at State and Jackson. Kelly wasn’t sure what to do next. Wait for her? Yes, that was it. Wait for her. She would finish what she started yesterday and confront this woman who was married to her husband. Kelly sat in her car, rubbing heavy hands over tired, droopy eyes. Married to her husband. She still had a hard time wrapping her head around that one.

She parked on a level one up from Geneva. There was a coffee shop a few blocks away. She’d risk it. She walked out onto Jackson and shivered immediately. Typical of Chicago this time of year, it was a good twenty degrees cooler than it had been Sunday, and her tank top wasn’t much defense against the frosty breezes. Maybe now she could stop somewhere and buy a sweater.

She ran down to the shop and got a muffin and a cup of coffee. She had her sunglasses on and her hair pulled up, and she hoped that would be enough to keep anyone from singling her out. She sat in the back, ate her muffin, and drank her coffee in slow and measured movements. It was ten by the time Kelly left the shop, and she walked down into the garage where Geneva had parked her car. Still there. She wondered how long Geneva would stay. Kelly looked around, slightly restless. She’d walk around for a bit and then come back in about a half hour to see if Geneva was still there. In the meantime, she’d just roam. Hopefully, she’d blend in with the bustle of the city.