Dead Lies (24 page)

CHAPTER 25

W
EB HAD TAKEN SOME PSYCHOLOGY CLASSES IN COLLEGE, SO HE
understood that anger was one of the five stages of grief. It came after denial and later moved into bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. But what he never expected was that his anger would become so intense, so brutal, so
primal
. By the time Serena’s funeral was over his rage was scorching.

And now he had someone to focus it on.

When his family got out of the limo, Web walked into his parents’ house and headed straight for his father’s study. He sat down at the partner’s desk his father had purchased in London thirty years ago and turned on the computer. Rapping his knuckles impatiently on the leather blotter while he waited for it to boot up, he glanced at the framed family photograph sitting on the corner of the desk. Taken more than thirty years ago, it was a shot of the five of them posing next to the Christmas tree, looking glow-y and very, very young. His mother was wearing a full-length green skirt and holding a chubby three-year-old Beth in her arms. His father was wearing the plaid pants he donned every Christmas until they no longer fit. He and Serena, the tow-headed twins, stood in front of their dad, decked out in matching red-velvet outfits and patent leather shoes. He stared at the picture intently. Serena and Violet didn’t just share a resemblance; the two of them looked so alike at that age they could have been twins.

He hadn’t told his family anything yet. There was something he needed to do first.

The computer screen came to life, and Web pushed the magazine aside. He clicked on Internet Explorer and typed Google into the address box. Gordon McGrower’s office was on Fifth Avenue, and while he knew approximately where the building was, he wanted to make sure he got the correct address. He jotted it down on a pad next to the keyboard and ripped off the page. Then he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Tim’s number. His friend picked up after two rings.

“How you doing, buddy?” his friend said. “I’ve been thinking about you guys all morning.”

“Thanks, Tim,” he said. “I appreciate that. We’re as fine as we can be. But right now I need your help.”

“What’s going on?”

He didn’t mince words. “Serena had a baby. It looks like she gave it up for adoption to Gordon McGrower…” The words gushed out. “You know, the real estate guy, the one with the helmet hair? I think he may be the father… Anyway, the baby isn’t a baby anymore. She’s six years old now. Her name is Violet…”

Tim cut him off. “Stop, Web. Start over and slow down. What the hell is this about Serena having a baby?”

Web took a few deep breaths. He was rambling, and it was making him sound crazy. He began again, slower this time, and took his friend through his morning’s discoveries. He went through them step by step—the secret file, the envelope full of photographs, the dying message from his sister that he’d finally deciphered. “
Get Violet
was what Serena was telling me,” Web finished up, his voice louder now, more urgent. “Not
bet violent
. She was asking me to get her daughter back.”

“Oh my God.”

Web rose from his chair and began pacing. “Some of those articles were awful,” he told Tim. “They hint that Violet may be abused, physically, sexually—or at the very least neglected. McGrower’s wife—she’s the former model Melanie Fox—remember her? They say she’s a drunk and a drug addict… There were stories about her checking in and out of Hazelton… Violet looks so sad in those photos…” He struggled to remain calm. “I’m going to New York to confront McGrower. I want to see the bastard’s face when I tell him that I know he killed my sister.”

Tim was silent for a full minute while he digested what had just been hurled at him. “Have you told the police about this?” he asked finally.

“No.”

Your family?”

“No.”

Another moment of silence passed. “This is crazy,” Tim said. “Serena gave up a baby and then got killed over it? Why? And why
now?
You said the little girl was six. Why not six years ago?” His words trailed off and then he added, “How can you be sure Violet is her daughter?”

“You’ve gotta see the pictures, Tim. You wouldn’t believe the resemblance. Violet looks exactly like Serena did at that age. Plus, the timing is perfect. Serena must have had the baby when she was living in London.”

The line was quiet again. “I’m still with you, buddy,” Tim said finally. “So, you said you think McGrower is the father, that Serena had an affair with him?”

Web wasn’t sure. He could only speculate. He scrolled through his memory of the past seven years and couldn’t remember Serena ever mentioning she’d met the real estate developer. He couldn’t remember her mentioning him
period.
And yet the past week had convinced Web there was plenty about Serena he didn’t know. The thought was so distressing he forced it out of his head.

“Possibly,” he said. “On the other hand, McGrower might just be the adoptive father. The real father could be some guy in England.” Web switched the phone from his right ear to his left one. The coolness felt good. “DNA would be the only way to know for sure.”

Tim was silent for a few seconds. “So Serena threatened to get her daughter back from Gordon McGrower, and he killed her?”

“
Had
her killed,” corrected Web. “He paid someone to do his dirty work.” The bitterness in his voice could have cut glass. “Remember, there are two other guys involved. The man on videotape who the cops think was the trigger man, and the guy who attacked me. The second guy must have gone back to Serena’s house to look for the file because the first guy didn’t get the job done.”

“It doesn’t sound like that file could ever convict McGrower, though,” said Tim. “It’s only circumstantial evidence.”

“Yeah, but it points the finger, doesn’t it? Without it, no one would ever have known about, or even suspected, McGrower’s involvement.” He paused. “I mean, why else would the man have sent somebody back for it?”

The line was quiet. “I believe you, Web,” Tim said finally. “I believe this whole crazy story, and I understand why you’d want to confront that bastard. But you can’t, Web. You have to go to the police.”

Web shook his head as if his friend could see him. “No. I need to see this guy face-to-face. I need to hear him admit what he did and tell me why. Why he killed Ceci.” A wave of pain smacked him, and he took a few seconds to compose himself. “If I wait for the police to arrest him, it’ll be a year or more before I can even get in the same room with him. I can’t do that, Tim, I’ll go nuts…”

More silence. More digesting.

“I want to talk you out of this,” Tim said. “But I know it won’t do any good. You always were a stubborn bastard. So I’m coming with you. Somebody needs to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. But I have one condition.”

“What?”

“You leave your gun at home.”

Web let out a choked cough. All morning he’d been imagining how it would feel to point his pistol at the scum-sucking McGrower, who, in his twisted fantasy, would piss his pants before falling to the floor and begging for his life. But as the revenge fantasy he had been constructing for several hours ended there, Web had to admit that the endgame looked bleak. He hadn’t come to terms with the aftermath: going to jail for firing, or even threatening to.

“I’m deadly serious,” Tim said when Web didn’t respond. “Turning a loaded weapon on McGrower won’t accomplish anything. It’ll just get you arrested. And me along with you.”

“Tim, I promise I won’t do anything stupid,” Web said reassuringly. “I…”

“Promise me you won’t bring the gun,” Tim interrupted. “I need you to say it.”

There was silence on the line for a few seconds.

“I promise I won’t bring the gun.”

“Good. Now where are we going?”

“The McGrower Building on Fifth Avenue.”

“Sure, I know the building. I always thought the name sounded like a cartoon hideaway.” He laughed even though the joke wasn’t funny. “What time should I pick you up?”

“I’m driving this time,” said Web. “I’ll pick you up in ten.”

“Are you wearing a suit?” his friend asked as he was about to hang up.

“A suit?” Web looked down at the dark fabric of his funeral clothes. “Yeah.”

“Good. Don’t change.”

“Why?”

“I have a plan.”

His friend clicked off before Web had a chance to ask him what he meant.

Tim was staying at his father’s condo in Wyckoff, only two miles away from his own parents’ place, so Web arrived before the car even had a chance to warm up. Tim saw him from the window and came outside. He was still buttoning his dress shirt as he walked toward the car, holding a tie in his hand.

Tim opened the passenger door but didn’t get in. “Do I have to frisk you?” he asked.

“Frisk me and I
will
get my gun.”

Tim climbed in.

“So what’s the plan?” Web said as he pulled away from the curb.

Tim snorted and slipped the tie around his neck, knotting it in a series of smooth, practiced motions. “Maybe calling it a plan was an overstatement, but hell, it’s a start. I know a guy who works in The McGrower Building. My friend Tony at Hanson Shipley. You know, the big securities firm? Anyway, I called in a favor. We have a fake appointment with him at 2:00 that’ll get us past lobby security. Tony also told me McGrower’s office is on the forty-fourth floor, but how the hell we’ll get in there I don’t know. We’ll have to wing it.”

Web was impressed. He hadn’t thought about any of this. His rage had blinded him to the details. He felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude once again for Tim’s friendship. “So why the suits?” he said.

“Because I figured we’re less likely to get questioned if we’re dressed like a couple of businessmen who got off on the wrong floor.”

“That’s not much of a plan,” he said, mildly disappointed.

“It’s the best I could do on such short notice.”

Web pointed to his battered face. “I’m not sure I look much the part today.”

He gripped the steering wheel as they made their way through the familiar streets. “I’m just so angry,” he said.

“Me, too.”

The two friends were silent as they sped along the route they’d traveled just a few days before. Traffic was light until they joined the mass of shoppers jamming up the half mile before The Riverside Square Mall on Route 4. As they stopped-and-started their way forward, Web glanced at the mall parking lot and saw that it was packed. It was a crisp, clear day that begged to be spent outdoors, but here in the suburbs people tended to spend both beautiful and crummy days alike going shopping.

Twenty minutes later, Web pulled into an underground parking garage on 52
nd
Street between Fifth and Madison and accepted the parking ticket the attendant held out. He and Tim climbed up the driveway to street level and walked over to Fifth, fighting their way through the wall of tourists who ambled along six abreast and knew how to look in only one direction: up.

Tim must have been thinking the same thing Web was because he said, “They should hand out pamphlets on the plane that explain the rules of New York.” He held up a hand and ticked off his fingers one by one. “Rule number one, please keep to the right of the sidewalk and walk no more than two abreast. Rule number two, leave your white sneakers and socks at home…”

Web laughed, and he felt some of the steam that had built up inside his system release. He’d also begun to feel foolish. Here he was about to confront the man who killed his sister without proof, protection, or anything resembling a real plan. Hell, he didn’t even know if McGrower would be here at all.

Maybe this was a bad idea after all. Maybe he should just go home and get drunk.

“You sure you want to do this?” said Tim.

Web felt the anger still sitting deep inside his belly like a hot, jagged stone, but he knew there was nothing he could do to ever bring his sister back. He felt helpless, like he’d already let Serena down by hesitating like this.

Then he remembered how Serena had called him in the last moments of her life and begged him to save her daughter. His niece.

“I’m sure,” he said, his newfound resolve balling his hands into fists. With Tim close at his heels, he marched past a woman shouting in a Southern accent at her husband and kids, oblivious to the fact he’d walked right into their picture. He stepped into the revolving door a broken brother and exited on the other side a warrior hell-bent on revenge.

CHAPTER 26

A
NNA AND KREEGER RETURNED TO POLICE HEADQUARTERS AROUND NOON,
and Kreeger was relieved that their earlier tension was now diffused. It was amazing how quickly Anna’s anger had dissolved when he’d returned to the car and informed her that Malik was dead. She’d perked up like a cadaver dog picking up the scent of death. If there’d ever been any doubt in his mind before, there was none now: Anna was born to be a homicide detective.

As soon as he’d discovered the body, Kreeger asked the surveillance team to give him the photos of everyone coming in and out of Malik’s building. He hoped that the perp had been captured on film. But there was a problem. The camera was a cheap disposable, so the pictures weren’t very good. Some of the subjects’ faces weren’t even visible.

Still, all wasn’t lost. Mrs. Stoller, the busybody living in #1B turned out to be a major help when he and Anna showed up at her door during the canvass. Because her recliner faced the window next to the building’s entrance, she knew everything about the habits of the other residents—what time they usually came and went, who their regular visitors were and so on—so she gleefully sorted through the surveillance photographs, identifying all but three of the subjects.

Among those three remaining photographs, one fired the synapses in Kreeger’s brain. The picture showed a man wearing a hat and blue overcoat whose back was turned and whose head hung low in a way that made him look furtive. The time stamp showed the stranger had entered the building at 8:32 the night before, which put him on the scene during the 7:00 to 10:00 p.m. window of time in which the Medical Examiner estimated Malik had died. Better yet, the male figure also appeared to be short and stocky. Just like Ivan Vasiliev.

That’s why Kreeger now had Melinda Madison on the phone. He’d wanted to e-mail her the image to see if she could identify him as such. Phone at his ear, Kreeger used his mouse to click the “Send” button and waited a few seconds for the e-mail to fly through cyber space and land in Melinda’s home computer.

“Got it,” he heard the young woman say. “Just give me a second to open it.”

“So what do you think?” Kreeger prompted after a few seconds.

“I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m really not sure this is Ivan. The man is the right height and shape, but I’ve never seen him wear an overcoat. Ivan is more of a leather jacket kind of guy. Also, something about this man’s posture tells me he’s older than Ivan, whose gotta be in his late forties or so…”

“He’s 42,” interrupted Kreeger, his hopes sinking.

“Okay,” she said. “Look Detective, I’d like to help you here, but I’d really need to see the man’s face to be sure.”

A sigh escaped Kreeger. Every time it seemed they had a lead the door slammed in their face. “Okay, thanks,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I really I am. I wish I could help you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” said Kreeger, feeling guilty he’d let his disappointment show. “You’ve given us plenty of help already. We appreciate how you came forward the other day. Thank you again.”

He said goodbye to Melinda, hung up, and sat back in his seat.

“Just our luck,” said Anna ruefully. “So, now we wait, right? What do you think we’ll get first—fingerprints or DNA?”

The DNA Anna was referring to was the strand of short blond hair found at the scene. It clearly wasn’t Malik’s because his hair was black. The fingerprints Anna was referring to came from the $5,000 cash deposit Malik had made to his bank two days after Christmas. Kreeger believed it was the fee he’d been paid for the hit. The bank had turned over the bills and now the lab had them.

“I can’t tell you that, but we should get the LUDS and tolls in a day or two,” he responded, referring to Malik’s phone records, which he’d asked Jane Carmichael to subpoena. He was especially interested in the calls made from or received by the stolen cell phone they’d found in Malik’s car. There was a good chance it would establish a connection between Malik and Ivan or even McGrower.

Anna shot him a coy look. “LUDS and tolls? I thought that expression went the way of Studebakers and cotton-picking minutes.”

Kreeger glared at her to hide his hurt. To a junior cop like Anna, LUDS and tolls—a term that referred to local usage and toll, or long distance, calls—was out-of-date terminology. Her joke made him feel old.

“Sorry,
call detail
,” he said sarcastically.

“Have you heard back from Web yet?” she asked.

Kreeger had left several messages on Web’s cell phone voice mail in the last hour because he wanted to ask him if he knew anything about his sister’s involvement with Gordon McGrower. He checked to see if the message light on his phone turret was on, but it wasn’t. “Not yet. I’ll try him again.”

But when he did, there was still no answer, so Kreeger hung up without leaving a message. He put the handset back in its cradle then picked it up again and dialed the Marino house. He could ask the parents if they knew anything about McGrower.

Web’s mother answered. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Marino, this is Detective Kreeger. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Web. It seems he’s not answering his cell phone.”

“Hello, Detective,” the woman said warmly. He wondered how she could be so composed, given she’d just buried her daughter and son-in-law that morning, and he assumed graciousness simply came naturally to her. He hadn’t met her yet, and he wondered if she looked as patrician as she sounded. “I don’t know where he went,” the woman added. “He took off without telling anyone where he was going.” Her voice dropped. “Are you calling with… any news?”

“Not the news you’re hoping for, I’m afraid.” He told the woman about Malik’s murder and heard her gasp at the mention he’d been stabbed. Kreeger hadn’t meant to shock her, but he’d learned that the best way to deal with the families of murder victims was to be straight with them.

“What’s going on, Detective?” she cried.

“We believe Malik was killed because he knew too much, and somebody wanted to silence him.”

“Who? Do you have a suspect?” He could hear the hope—and pain—in her voice.

“There’s someone we’re looking at, yes…”

“Who?”

“He’s only a person of interest at this point,” Kreeger warned, using a law enforcement phrase that had become familiar to the public in the last few years, “not a suspect. He’s a man named Gordon McGrower.”

There was silence on the end of the line. “The real estate developer?
That
Gordon McGrower?”

“Yes. We’ve learned that your daughter went to his office a few weeks ago and had a private meeting with him. We don’t know why or what they talked about, and we’re hoping you might.”

“I didn’t even know she knew him,” she said shakily. “I don’t understand why she would have gone to his office. This doesn’t make any sense…”

“Is it possible your daughter was involved in the Deerwood protest?” Kreeger prompted.

The woman paused to think. “I don’t think so. I believe I would have known if she was. But let me ask my husband. Maybe he knows something, and he’s standing right here…”

Kreeger heard Mrs. Marino relay the news about Serena’s meeting with McGrower, and the voice that came back on the phone was her husband’s.

“I highly doubt Serena was involved in the protest of the building project,” Carl Marino said. “She wasn’t the activist type. We’re shocked to hear she knew him. Are you going to talk to McGrower?” Kreeger could hear the determination in his voice—and a hint of anger, though Kreeger knew it wasn’t directed at him.

“We’re going to talk to him, yes. As I explained to your wife, he’s only a person of interest at this point, not a suspect, so we don’t have any grounds to arrest him. I’d like to remind you not to rush to judgment.”

“Don’t patronize me, Detective,” Mr. Marino said crisply, “especially given this is the first solid lead you’ve been able to tell us about in days.”

Kreeger let the barb go, as he was used to doing. The man was just lashing out the way many victims’ family members did. They had to direct their anger at someone, and when there wasn’t a perp to rail at, it was usually the investigator who bore the brunt. “You’re right, sir, and we’re continuing to work around the clock to find the person who did this. I’ll keep you informed of our progress.”

A sigh escaped Mr. Marino’s lips, and Kreeger knew the fight had gone out of him as quickly as it had come. “I know you’re doing your best, Detective,” the man said conciliatorily. “Thank you for calling.

Kreeger hung up and turned back to Anna, who’d heard the gist of their conversation. “It’s time to talk to McGrower.”