Chapter 22

“WHAT ISHE doing here?”

“Penny.” His tone was accusatory. “You said you needed to talk about something important.” With a nod in my direction he demanded: “So why is she here?”

“So you didn’t know I’d be here?” I asked.

“No. Or I wouldn’t be here.”

“Matt, don’t be rude.” Penny turned to me. “And Morgan, don’t get mad. I called you both. I know during a murder investigation you two aren’t supposed to be alone together—”

“I feel as though I’ve missed an episode,” I interrupted. “Why did you trick us both? And why am I in this robe?”

“You’re here undercover?” Phoenix winked at me.

“That’s not a very good joke,” I said, “but it’s the first I’ve heard you make.”

“Are you implying I have no sense of humor?”

“I’m saying I haven’t seen evidence of it.”

“Evidence. That’s why I brought you two here,” Penny said.

Phoenix turned to her. “Explain,” he said.

“Until you solve the case, we—the three of us—can’t have a simple friendship. So, I thought of a way to move things along faster.”

“Oh, I want to hear this.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Detective. I’d like to hear your idea, Penny.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, then continued, “The two of you should work together. Share information. Morgan already knows all the people you and G.G. are talking to, Matt. She could recognize some clue you might miss.”

“Thanks for your faith in me, Penny,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You forgot to have lunch, didn’t you?” Penny turned to me. “Matt’s so crabby when he misses a meal. He’s been like that ever since he was a little boy.”

I didn’t want to think of Matt Phoenix as a little boy. I wanted to get us back to the safe subject of violent death. I turned to Phoenix. “As an act of good faith, will you answer one question for me?”

“If I can.”

“Is there anyone, of the people you’ve talked to, who has an absolutely airtight alibi for the time frame of Damon’s murder?”

“Nathan Hughes, the PR man, and that vice president, Rick Spencer, were with Mr. and Mrs. Yarborough at a dinner party the Yarboroughs gave. Ten people swore Hughes and Spencer didn’t leave the Yarborough home in Greenwich, Connecticut, until one o’clock in the morning. Before he found the body, Joe Niles was at an English pub called The Fox and Hounds, on Lexington and Sixty-Fifth. We found three people who swore he was playing pool with them until close to twelve-thirty. Cybelle Carter and Johnny Isaac were together at her place, with a nurse. Teresa Radford and her son say they were together. I don’t put much stock in a mother and her son providing alibis for each other. Or an agent and his client, except that Mrs. Radford, Jeremy and Ms. Carter lack any motive we’ve been able to discover. The nurse doesn’t think Isaac left Ms. Carter’s, but she admits she fell asleep for a while. Isaac is apparently obsessed with Ms. Carter. He hasn’t made any secret about hating the victim, but neither have you, Morgan.”

“Look, I thought of something on the way home today. It’s an area I think you should explore.”

“What area?”

“Damon’s money. He was a poor boy. How did he amass millions of dollars? I’m going to look into it, too.”

“No. I don’t want you looking into anything. You’ll just get in the way.”

“You’ve got one hell of a nerve!”

“I agree with you,” Penny said. “You’re not very diplomatic, Matt.”

Phoenix realized he’d lost ground with both of us and tried to recover it. “What I mean is, this is a murder investigation. It’s a job for professionals. Someone out there killed a man and could kill again. Someone already tried to kill you. I want you out of the line of fire.”

“And I want you to stop speaking to me in that condescending tone.”

“Okay, I’ll stop condescending and you’ll stay out of my investigation. Deal?”

“You’re the professional,” I said with a bright smile on my face.

I hoped it would blind him to the fact I had not agreed to his deal.

“Now, if that’s settled . . .” I turned to Penny. “Is the offer of a facial still good?”

I LEFT NATASHA’S more relaxed than I can remember feeling. Ever.

Including the stress-erasing hour spent at the tips of Penny’s expert fingers, I’ve had a total of three facials in my life. The first was a present from Nancy, the day before my wedding. The second was also a present from Nancy, when I came back to New York after almost six years in the jungles of East Africa. Before I left Natasha’s, I bought Nancy a gift certificate.

It was after seven o’clock, dark and, when I stepped outside, cool. In spite of the chill I decided to walk, for a few blocks at least. I was living a mystery story, and I needed to figure out, or find out, some answers. First, why had Damon left me millions of dollars? Astonishingly, I was an heiress. Sort of. I had to live for the next six months to collect the money. Which I wasn’t sure I would accept when the time came. If I died in the next six months, the money would go to Jeremy. I did not believe for a moment that Jeremy would consider killing me, but I wasn’t so sure about Teresa . . .

“Follow the money,” Deep Throat told Bob Woodward in All the President’s Men more than thirty years ago. It was still excellent advice. I was getting cold, and hungry. I spotted an empty cab, flagged it down and gave the driver my address.

I SAW A tall man coming out of the Dakota as I was getting out of the cab. Broad shoulders, athletic build, about forty. Very good posture. His hand was raised to signal my cab, but he lowered it.

“Are you Morgan Tyler?” he asked.

Oh great. “Yes.” What now?

“I just left a note for you at the desk. I’m Kevin Chet Thompson.”

The name was vaguely familiar; so was his face.

Kevin Chet Thompson, whoever he was, had the thick, curly hair of Michelangelo’s statue of David. He also had large features, just regular enough to be attractive and just irregular enough to make him something better than handsome. Interesting. I had the feeling I had seen him on television. On Oprah? Maybe. I was pretty sure it hadn’t been on America’s Most Wanted.

He waved my cab on its way.

“Why did you leave me a note?” I asked.

He noticed I was shivering. “You’re cold,” he said. “Shall we go up to your place where we can talk?”

“No!” It came out more forcefully than I meant it to. “Look,” I said, “I’ve had a long day. Whatever this is about, you can call me at GBN tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

Chagrinned, he said, “That was stupid. Of course you’re not going to invite me in. You haven’t the slightest idea who I am, have you?”

I hate people who make me guess who they are and what they want. “You’re from Publishers Clearinghouse,” I said, “and you’re here with my ten-million-dollar check.”

He laughed. “I don’t have ten million dollars with me, but I’m carrying enough to buy you dinner. Are you hungry? Is there a place near here that you like?”

Food. It would be nice not to cook. “I’ll go get your note, read it and then maybe we’ll talk. Wait here.” He nodded and I went into our reception office.

Frank Gerber, our night man at reception (who was a former professional wrestler, known in the ring as “Frank N. Steen”), handed me the note. “The guy just left,” Frank said.

“He’s still outside.” I tore open the envelope and scanned the note.

“Is he giving you trouble?” Frank asked. He came around from behind the desk, ready to leave his post for me.

“Not yet,” I said. “I’ll scream if I need you.”

The note introduced the stranger as Kevin Chet Thompson, said that he’d been asked by a publisher to write a biography of Kitty Leigh and that he wanted to talk to me about daytime television. His handwriting was better than mine.

Shoving his note into my pocket, I went back outside and faced him.

“You have picture I.D.?” I asked.

Grinning at me with an expression somewhere between amusement and respect, he took his wallet from an inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. It was elegant butterscotch leather from Hermès, so soft that holding it in my hand was a sensual pleasure. I opened it to his driver’s license. The name was Kevin C. Thompson, and his face matched the photo. I wanted to ask how he managed to have an attractive picture taken at the DMV, but I restrained myself, closed the wallet, and handed it back to him.

“There’s a deli down Seventy-Second,” I said. “In the middle of the next block.”

“Sounds good to me.” As we started walking west, he took off his jacket. He was wearing an Irish cable-knit fisherman’s sweater underneath. “Here,” he said.

Before I could respond, he draped his jacket around my shoulders.

It was so big on me it almost reached my knees.

I wasn’t cold anymore.