Chapter 33

ONE OF THE wardrobe women put together an outfit in my size: a sweater, slacks, a jacket and a pair of shoes. I asked for a looser sweater, and she made the exchange. Then she gave the clothes to a nice young policewoman whose name tag identified her as Officer Martinez. Officer Martinez accompanied me to an empty dressing room and watched me strip down to bra and panties.

No suspicious marks.

Having passed inspection, she handed me the change of clothes. As she was folding my bloodstained clothing into a plastic bag, I used my cell phone to call Nancy at her office. Nancy’s assistant, Miriam, told me Nancy was in conference, but when I said a police officer had just taken away my clothes, Miriam got Nancy on the line.

“Are you all right?” Nancy asked as soon as we were connected.

Bless her heart, she didn’t ask what I had done; she was too loyal for that. Her immediate assumption was that something had been done to me. Briefly, I told her about finding Serena McCall’s body, and about accidentally handling what might be the murder weapon. I finished up with, “So I’m on my way to the Twentieth Precinct, to give a formal statement.”

“Don’t tell them anything,” Nancy commanded. “We’ll meet you there.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” I asked. But Nancy had already hung up.

THE TWENTIETH PRECINCT is a squat building at One Hundred and Twenty West Eighty-Second, a tree-lined street between Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues. The two pale gray stone upper decks sit on a base of charcoal gray bricks. Once they might have been a lighter color, say back around the time George Washington still had his own teeth. Whether for purposes of information, or intimidation, it identified itself in big metal letters affixed to the front of the building—20THPRECINCT. No one walked through those doors by accident.

The detectives’ squad room was on the second floor, up a flight of wooden stairs that creaked with history. The large, open area where they worked looked pretty much the way I expected the place to look, having seen many reruns of Law & Order and NYPD Blue. There were a lot of desks, a lot of telephones and nothing that could be confused with decorative charm. Separated from the detectives’ bullpen, at the far end of the room, was a glass-enclosed office. I saw slatted blinds on the inside and guessed that they could be closed for privacy.

I entered the squad room with Officer Olivia Martinez still by my side, still carrying the large plastic bag that contained the clothes and shoes I had worn at the Global Broadcasting building. Nancy had already arrived. As usual, gorgeous Nancy was the focus of all eyes in the room, including those of Detectives Phoenix and Flynn. She was wearing a dressed-to-intimidate steel gray Versace suit with a neckline that hinted at more than it revealed, and her favorite strand of seven-millimeter natural pearls.

Dazzling as she was, I was used to my pal, so my eyes went directly to the man standing next to her. He was a good three inches shorter, in his late thirties, with a boyish face, a high forehead and dark hair that was beginning to thin. Black-rimmed glasses accented intelligent brown eyes. His black Armani suit and his gray silk tie were so elegant they could have been featured on the cover of GQ magazine. He carried a handsome black calf-skin briefcase.

Nancy saw me come in and hurried over. The two detectives and the man in Armani were right behind her. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”

“Where else would I be?” She looked truly worried.

I gestured to Phoenix and Flynn and asked Nancy, “Have you met the two lead detectives in my life, Matt Phoenix and G.G. Flynn?”

“Yes,” she said, the chilly tone of her voice implying the experience had not been a thrill. Then her tone warmed dramatically as she said, “Morgan Tyler, I’d like you to meet the head of our Criminal Defense Division, Arnold Rose.” Her eyes sparkled as she pronounced his name. “I told you about him,” she said softly.

But not nearly enough. I extended my hand, Arnold Rose took it, and we acknowledged the introductions. He had a nice firm handshake.

“So you lawyered up,” Flynn said, scowling at me. Phoenix said nothing, but I saw the same worried expression in his eyes that I saw in Nancy’s.

Arnold Rose, Esquire, ignored Flynn and addressed Phoenix. “Is there someplace where I can speak to my client in private?” he asked.

“Interview One is empty,” Phoenix said.

Officer Martinez, who had been standing next to me, indicated the plastic bag she carried and asked Detective Flynn, “What’ll I do with this?”

“It’s my clothes,” I told Nancy, indicating the bag with a nod of my head.

Arnold Rose went into action. “I would appreciate it, Detectives,” he said, “if you would wait a few minutes and then inventory those items in my presence.”

“No problem,” Phoenix said. He took the bag from Officer Martinez and put it on top of what I guessed was his desk. He nodded at Flynn. “I’ll show them to One.”

He led us down a hallway to an unmarked wooden door, opened it and then left without a word.

INTERVIEW ROOM ONE was a cheerless rectangle painted pea soup green, about eight feet by twelve feet, with a scarred wooden table in the center. Three mismatched wooden chairs had been placed around the table, with a fourth chair next to the door. A steel ring attached to a dangling handcuff was bolted to one end of the table. I pictured my wrist locked in that cuff and I shuddered. Nancy saw me looking at it, guessed what I was thinking—fearing—and reached out to give my hand a comforting squeeze.

The first thing Arnold Rose did when we entered the room, even before we sat down, was stare at the six-foot-by-four-foot mirror that was set into the wall next to the door. Arnold Rose went over to the mirror and rapped with his knuckles. He addressed unseen ears in a raised voice, “There had better not be anybody out there listening to us. If there is, turn off any microphones and or cameras, or risk the legal consequences of violating attorney-client privilege.”

He waited a few seconds, assumed that he was being obeyed and then turned his attention back to Nancy and me. He indicated that Nancy was to sit on one long side of the table and I was to sit opposite her. He pulled the chairs out for both of us, then he took the seat he had chosen for himself. It was next to Nancy and across from me. When he placed his briefcase on the table, I noticed it had a five-number combination lock.

Needing something to lighten the mood, I decided to test a bit that I was about to use on the show, in my Jillian and Garrett story. “May I see your briefcase?” I asked.

The request surprised Rose, but he pushed his briefcase across the table toward me. I stroked the soft leather admiringly. I studied the combination lock for two seconds, then I twirled five numbers: six-two-five-seven-three. I pressed the release button . . . and the lid of the case snapped open. Two startled gasps erupted from the other side of the table. Immediately, without looking at the contents, I closed and locked the case again. I twirled the numbers to other digits, and pushed the case back.

The two attorneys stared at me, astonished.

Then Arnold’s ears began to grow red with embarrassment.

“How did you do that?” Nancy asked. Arnold was silent; he knew how.

“Lucky guess,” I said. Then I smiled at Nancy. The numbers I had used to open the lock stood for June twenty-fifth, nineteen seventy-three. The month, the day and the year of Nancy’s birth. I wondered if Nancy knew her birthday was the combination; since she was looking puzzled, I guessed she did not. So Arnold Rose was as crazy about her as she was about him. It had to be true; after all, I had just caught him doing the upper-income equivalent of carving initials on a tree.

Arnold must have been flustered, but he was a good poker player. He arranged his face in a criminal-defense-attorney expression and got us back to business. “Tell me everything you did, Morgan, from the moment you arrived at the Global building today.”

I obliged. Mostly. I told him about my visit to Kitty to talk about her appearing on Love, our discussing whether it would be as herself, or as a character I would create for her. What I did not tell Arnold and Nancy was about Rick Spencer and Joe Niles blackmailing Kitty. Nor would I tell them, or anyone, about Damon humiliating her. When I left Kitty’s dressing room, I remembered a line that I heard or read. It went something like, What is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. I had done nothing for four months too long.

“Morgan? Morgan, where are you?”

The voice of Arnold Rose snapped me back to the present.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “My mind wandered for a moment.”

“Would you like some coffee?” Nancy asked. “Or something cold?”

“No, thanks. I’m with you again. Where was I . . . ?”

“Kitty Leigh agreed to be on your show,” Arnold said.

“And she wants to play a character,” Nancy added. She turned her head to watch Arnold question me. When she looked at him, she positively glowed.

“Right,” I said. “I left Kitty’s dressing room, and was going upstairs to the Love of My Life studios to talk to our executive producer, Tommy Zenos. We’re only two floors above Kitty’s studio, so I did what I usually do—instead of using the elevator, I took the stairs.”

“That’s true, Arnold,” Nancy said. “Everybody who knows Morgan knows she uses stairs whenever it’s possible.”

Arnold Rose nodded. “Confirmation, that’s good.”

I explained I didn’t remember that the fire doors now locked from the inside until I was stuck. “Do they know why there weren’t any lights in the stairwell?” I asked.

“Someone unscrewed the bulbs on the landing where you found the body, and on several floors above and below,” Arnold said.

“The police told you that?” I asked.

“Not officially.” He smiled with satisfaction. “I have a source here.”

“So do I,” I said. “And unofficially, I was told Serena was the person who tried to run me down a while back.”

Nancy was shocked. “What do you mean—tried to run you down? When?”

“A while ago,” I said. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to worry you. There’s something else I didn’t tell you, Nance, for the same reason. Last night someone fired a bullet through my living room window—apparently at me.”

“Morgan!” Nancy was beyond shock now; she was terrified. “You’re coming to live with me, that’s it, no argument.”

“Yes, argument,” I said. “I appreciate your offer, but I won’t hide, and I won’t let what’s going on destroy the life I’ve built.”

“We can get you bodyguards,” Arnold Rose said. He was still maintaining his professional calm, but I saw worry in his eyes, too.

“No bodyguards. I can take care of myself.” I smiled at them and joked, “I’m still alive, so I must be doing a good job.”

“I don’t want to lose my best friend,” Nancy said.

“You’re not going to.”

“Tell me exactly what happened last night.” Arnold said.

I told them about going to dinner at Elaine’s with Kevin Chet Thompson, and then inviting him upstairs after dinner, to talk about Damon’s murder. I told them about looking out into the park, and about the bullet through the window. That it was a 30.06, but that the detectives weren’t confident they’d be able to match it to a particular rifle.

“You’re leaving something out,” Nancy said. She was as smart as she was good-looking, and she knew me too well.

“Well . . . Chet was kissing me when it happened,” I admitted.

“Hallelujah,” Nancy said, softly.

“I hardly think that’s the proper response to my being shot at.” I tried to sound aggrieved, but Nancy gave me one of her “you-know-what-I-mean” looks.

Arnold Rose was a man who refused to be thrown off the track. “Two attempts on your life. Did you report them to the police?”

“The shooting,” I said. “Police officers came to the apartment, and then Detectives Phoenix and Flynn arrived. They classified it as vandalism since there was no proof the gunshot was a murder attempt.”

Nancy made a sound of disgust, but let Arnold ask the questions.

“And when you were nearly run down . . . ?”

“Penny Cavanaugh told Detective Phoenix about it. She’s his aunt, and I had just had dinner with her when that happened.”

I told them that Serena’s fingerprint was in the stolen car. I also told them that Phoenix and Flynn had come to my apartment this morning with a warrant to examine my nine-millimeter Glock, and that they took it with them. Arnold Rose revealed that his mystery source had already informed him of how Damon Radford really died.

“It’s a mess,” Nancy said.

Arnold Rose aimed comforting smiles at us both. “I’ve found that in confusion and chaos there is opportunity,” he said. “The DA won’t risk charging you, Morgan, until they have a theory about these crimes. They won’t dare claim that the two murders aren’t connected, because it’s a virtual certainly they are. They’ll look ridiculous if they say anything else. Now, what they can say is that your motive for killing Radford was to inherit several million dollars.”

“Which Morgan didn’t know anything about,” Nancy said.

“She can’t prove she didn’t know,” Arnold told her.

He turned back to me. “Next, they can say you killed Serena McCall because she tried to kill you.”

“I didn’t know it was Serena at the wheel until after she was dead!”

“But you can’t prove that,” he said.

“Even if I did know that Serena was driving, I’d have to be crazy to kill her in our building,” I said. “I’d have had to lure her into the stairwell, probably by phone. Even if I asked her not to tell anyone she was meeting me, how could I be sure she wouldn’t tell someone? She’d already tried to kill me, so why wouldn’t she be suspicious of my invitation to meet her inside an emergency exit?”

“That’s right,” Nancy said.

Arnold agreed; the scenario that had me killing Serena didn’t make sense. “It would be an easy case to defend,” he said. “But I want your troubles to stop here. We have to turn their spotlight in another direction.”

“Last night I made a list of suspects,” I told them. “Those people who don’t have alibis that I think might have murdered Damon. Serena was on it, but with her dead, that reduced my list to three names.”

“Who?” Arnold asked.

“Johnny Isaac, Teresa Radford and, as much as I hate to consider it because I like him—Tommy Zenos. And whoever killed Damon probably killed Serena, too.”

Arnold nodded. “I agree, that is likely,” he said.

“I don’t know where Teresa was today, but Johnny Isaac and Tommy were probably in the building . . .” I said.

“From what I’ve learned,” Arnold said, “Serena McCall was dead for a few minutes, at most, before you found her.”

A horrible thought turned my spinal column to ice. My stomach muscles clenched in fear. “If that’s true—about the time of her death—then the murderer must have been in the stairwell at the same time I was,” I said. “Maybe going down when I was going up . . .”

“Oh, God,” Nancy whispered. She reached across the table and gripped my hand.

“It’s okay—nothing happened to me.” I said that to reassure both of us. “My luck is still holding.”

Neither Nancy nor Arnold replied to that.

We all knew that luck had a way of running out.