Chapter 34

AFTER OUR PRIVATE conference in Interview Room One, Nancy, Arnold Rose and I watched Detective Phoenix make a list of the clothes I was wearing when I found Serena’s body: black slacks, ivory silk shirt, green suede blazer and black leather ankle boots. All were stained with blood.

“How long are you going to keep these things?” Arnold asked.

“I don’t want any of them,” I said before Phoenix could reply. “Keep them as long as you want, then give them away, or burn them.” The thought of wearing something that had been soaked with Serena’s blood revolted me.

“Okay,” Phoenix said. “They stay bagged and tagged in the evidence room until the case is over. Then we’ll have them cleaned and give them to the church around the corner.”

I nodded agreement.

Finally, with Arnold Rose sitting next to me, I gave my statement. Arnold insisted that Phoenix telephone Kitty Leigh immediately, to ask if I had been with her, and how long we had spent together. He did. Kitty told him the same thing that I had, and put her floor manager on the phone to back her up. After the calls, Phoenix and Flynn told me I could go home.

Matt Phoenix escorted us to the head of the stairs. As Arnold and Nancy started down, Phoenix touched me lightly on the arm. “Two murders—this isn’t some daytime plot you can control,” he said softly. “Watch your back.”

I was about to reply with a joke, but I looked at his eyes and saw they were dark with genuine concern. The quip died on my lips. I told him I’d be careful, then I hurried down the stairs to catch up with Nancy and Arnold. Out on West Eighty-Second Street, while Arnold was hailing a cab, I still felt the touch of Matt’s hand on my arm.

ARNOLD AND NANCY dropped me at the corner of Seventy-Second and Central Park West and continued on to their office in midtown. I was within two feet of the Dakota when a large, blond uniformed chauffeur who looked like a “Come to Bavaria” poster suddenly blocked my path. “Mr. Yarborough would like to see you,” Mr. Bavaria said. “Will you come with me, please?”

The Chairman of the Board of Global Broadcasting wants to see me?

The chauffeur opened the door of a new silver Lincoln Town Car. When I climbed inside, I sank back against black leather upholstery as soft as a baby’s skin. I thought I was going for a short ride down Central Park West, but when we turned left at Sixty-Sixth Street to go through the park, I realized I wasn’t going to the Global Broadcasting building.

I leaned forward, “Where are we going?”

“To see Mr. Yarborough.”

Duh.

Robo-Driver was not inclined to tell me anything else, so I relaxed and idly stroked the soft black leather. I hoped we weren’t going all the way up to Greenwich, Connecticut, because I needed a major injection of coffee, and soon. Also, I was getting hungry. Thanks to Chet I had had breakfast, but now it was late in the afternoon. On a day during which I had fallen over a dead body, lost two suspects on my short list, been summoned to give a command performance at the Twentieth Precinct and acquired a criminal lawyer—well, all of that had burned up the breakfast calories long ago.

Our destination turned out to be Seventy-Sixth Street and Madison Avenue, The Hotel Carlyle. In addition to his home in Greenwich, Winston Yarborough also keeps a permanent suite at this elegant Manhattan landmark.

The Carlyle has a distinctive white wood canopied entry, trimmed in gold, with a straight white canvas drape on each side that falls almost to the sidewalk. The drapes serve to frame the black and gold façade of the entrance. For anyone who doesn’t recognize it on sight, “The Carlyle” is spelled out in gold script on each side of the canopy and above the revolving door.

I had never been upstairs to one of the high-priced rooms, or to one of the suites which were priced in the stratosphere, but I had been to the Café Carlyle several times with Nancy and one of her pre–Arnold Rose insignificant others. And once, during one of Tommy Zenos’s short-lived engagements, I had met him and his fiancée-of-the moment at The Carlyle’s Bemelmans Bar for a drink to celebrate another rise in our ratings. Tommy told me Bemelmans was his favorite hangout because he loved the whimsical murals of author and artist Ludwig Bemelmans, who had also created Madeline, the precocious children’s book character. On that night Tommy had had a little too much to drink and confided to his fiancée and me that, as an only child, he liked to pretend that Madeline was his sister, and that he talked to her in the middle of the night. His admission was touching, but then he made the mistake of adding that he still did this. I could hear the sound of another of Tommy’s engagements breaking even as he spoke.

Mr. Bavaria was not content to deliver me to the entrance. He whisked me through the revolving door and across The Carlyle’s opulent lobby. With a key he took out of his pocket, he opened the door to a private elevator and pushed the button for the twenty-second floor. He stepped back out into the lobby just as the elevator door closed. For twenty-two floors I was a bird all alone in this gilded cage.

When the elevator stopped, the door slid open with barely a whisper of sound. I stepped directly into the foyer of one of The Carlyle’s luxurious Tower Suites, and found myself facing Winston Yarborough. He was dressed like a London banker on a casual Friday, in superbly cut pale gray wool slacks, a white shirt with French cuffs, a textured silver tie and a black cashmere cardigan. The cuffs were secured by his signature platinum links, embossed with the Global Broadcasting logo.

“Thank you for coming, my dear,” he said. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me in an avuncular embrace. I was so startled I went stiff in his arms. He must have sensed my discomfort because he quickly took his arms away. “Forgive me, if that was inappropriate. It’s just that I think of you almost as a daughter, Morgan.”

A daughter? “That’s very flattering, Mr. Yarborough.” This is the first conversation we’ve ever had! “But I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Am I in The Hotel Carlyle or the Twilight Zone?

He put his hand on my arm and gently guided me into the raised living room. It had cathedral ceilings, and a magnificent picture window view over Central Park. The room was furnished with museum-quality English antiques that I guessed belonged to Winston Yarborough personally. Nor were the paintings that hung on the walls likely to be hotel-supplied; I recognized two large and glorious scenes by Turner. With a sweep of one manicured hand, the chairman of the board—Bwana Macubwa I’d have called him in Swahili—indicated he wanted me to sit down on the silk upholstered sofa to the left of the concert grand piano.

I sat.

A picture-perfect English high tea had been laid out on the low antique table in front of the sofa.

Yarborough took a seat next to me, indicated the tea service with a small nod of his head and clasped his hands on his knees. “I sent my butler out on an errand so that we could be alone,” he said. “Do you mind pouring for us?”

“No, not at all,” I said. I picked up the fine china teapot and put the antique silver tea strainer that was next to it over his cup. As I poured the steaming tea, I recognized the scent. “Darjeeling,” I said. “From Ashby’s, in London?”

“Yes, Ashby’s.” His smile told me he was pleased I was aware of Ashby’s. “Do you know London well?” he asked.

“No, I’m sorry to say. I’ve only been once, and not for nearly long enough.” I handed him the filled cup.

“Perhaps we can do something about that. Send you on business, perhaps to assess daytime television in Britain. We could arrange theater tickets for you while you’re there. You’d stay at the Connaught, of course,” he said, mentioning an exquisite hotel in Mayfair—more like a club—where staff members outnumber the guests.

This meeting was getting more and more bizarre. He was offering me a fabulous trip, but in exchange for what?

Glancing sideways at him, I put the silver strainer over my own cup and proceeded to pour. “I don’t think you invited me here to discuss the wonders of London,” I said delicately. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes, there is. But first I must apologize to you, Morgan.” There was pain in his voice. “If I had known you and Damon were to be married, I would have taken you up to Greenwich immediately, to stay with us for as long as you needed.”

That statement almost made me spill my tea. I decided to listen instead.

“I was so deep in my own grief,” he said, “I didn’t think about anyone else. Except Jeremy, of course, but Jeremy still has his mother. You have no one.”

I decided my best course would be ambiguity—at least until I learned what was on his mind. He was silent, so I arranged my mouth into what I hoped looked like a brave smile and I prodded a little. “Feeling about Damon as you did, this must be terrible for you, as well,” I said sympathetically.

He nodded, but did not reply immediately. I was even more certain now that I was not here simply because he wanted to comfort me, the unofficial widow. “You said there was something I can do to help, Mr. Yarborough . . . ?”

“Please, call me Win.” He took a sip of tea and then set the cup down.

Here it comes.

He took the teacup out of my hand, set it down on the tray and took both of my hands in his. His eyes stared into mine. “Damon was like a son to me,” he said. “The closest I ever came to having a son. I loved him as though I were his father.”

I kept quiet, listening for the reason this wealthy and powerful man had asked me to call him “Win.”

“My wife and I had a daughter . . . but we lost our little girl to a drug overdose. That was more than twenty years ago. It happened only a few weeks before Damon wrote his audacious letter to me, analyzing the flaws in my network’s programming . . . But you know the story. To come directly to the point, my dear Morgan, I want to say that I know Damon was not perfect. He had his . . . well, I called them his little weaknesses. Now that he is gone, I want to protect the splendid image the public had of him.”

He was looking closely at me, gauging my reaction, perhaps even trying to determine how much I really knew about Damon’s “little weaknesses.” I kept a sympathetic expression on my face. “I understand,” I said.

“No, you don’t. Not yet. When the person who killed Damon is found, I intend to make a bargain with—with this person. I will pay all expenses for the finest legal talent in the country—secretly, of course—in exchange for one thing. That person must swear to give one particular explanation to the authorities.”

“What explanation?” I asked.

“That’s the story you will write, my dear.”

My eyes widened with surprise. “The story? I’m sorry . . . ?”

“I need you to create a motive for the crime.” As he spoke, he was patient, intense, focused. “A reason that reflects well on Damon. This will be the most important tale you have ever created, Morgan.” A dark, furious light burned deep in his eyes; his grip on my hands tightened. “In exchange, I’ll give you anything you want,” he said. “A longer and more generous contract? To become a producer? Would you like to create your own daytime drama? You would have my written commitment to put it on the air and to keep it there for at least five years, regardless of ratings. Whatever you want. Name it.”

I needed to be sure I understood what he was asking of me, so I repeated it back to him, carefully. “You want me to devise a motive for Damon’s murder that will reflect well on Damon. You don’t want the killer to put up a defense that smears him.”

“That’s it precisely,” he said. “I knew we could do business. You are discreet.”

There must have been question marks in my eyes.

“Yes, I investigated you, Morgan.” He said it as casually as someone else might have told me what time it was. “I know I can trust you,” he added. Deep in his carefully nonthreatening tone was the clear implication that if I betrayed his trust, he could, and would, crush me. For all of his courtly manners, Winston Yarborough had not become chairman of the board of a major media conglomerate by being Mr. Nice Guy.

“It’s probable the person who killed Damon also killed Serena McCall,” I said.

“I don’t care.” He let go of my hands. “Whatever will be said will be said about the unfortunate Ms. McCall.”

“Do you have any idea who killed Damon?” I asked.

“My private investigators have reached no conclusions. My personal theory? I believe Damon was murdered by his former wife. She’s a most unhappy woman, and, I believe, emotionally unstable. If I’m correct, it should be fairly easy to devise a convincing insanity defense for her. Let her get some treatment, then go free.”

I raised my brows, and he continued, “Punishment won’t bring Damon back. What I want is damage control. You will create a scenario to accomplish that objective.” He leaned forward, “Now, what can I give you in return for protecting the reputation of the man we both loved and lost?”

Whew. Winston Yarborough was offering me himself as a wish-granting genie in a bottle. He may have been a titan among the media gods, but he wasn’t God, so the one thing I wanted most was something he was powerless to give me.

But my second choice was an easy one.

“Win,” I said, tasting his name on my tongue. “I appreciate your generosity. And there is something I want, but it doesn’t involve money or a new title, or my own show. There are two men in your organization who could seriously damage Global’s reputation if the tabloids found out about what they’re doing.” I was looking into his eyes and saw the silent alarm bells go off in his head.

“Rick Spencer and Joe Niles—Niles is a director on Love—are blackmailing one of the stars on your network to keep quiet about . . . something they saw,” I said. “Your star didn’t steal or hurt anyone, this was something personal and embarrassing. It’s something you and I wouldn’t want made public either.”

I was Salome, he was King Herod, and I was asking for the heads of Rick Spencer and Joe Niles. Yarborough assessed my words carefully, parsing them for every bit of meaning. I was sure he got the hint that this “something” might not reflect well on Damon. He set his teacup down with a gesture of finality.

“I’ll handle the matter. Discreetly.”

“Thank you,” I said. I put my cup down too, prepared to leave.

“You don’t want anything for yourself?” he asked. He took my hands again and looked into my eyes. “Nothing?”

“With Damon gone . . .” I lowered my eyes and shook my head with what I hoped he would interpret as sadness. There was one more thing I wanted from my new friend Win; I smiled up at him. “After the hit-and-run, when he was in the hospital, Damon told me”—I was taking a big leap—“that he owed his financial security to you. He was about to explain, but then we were interrupted.” I shrugged, and gazed at Yarborough for a moment. “It was so important to Damon, what you did for him, but now I’ll never know what it was.” I was doing my best to look winsome. Some older men melt like butter on a grill for winsome.

Pride swept across Yarborough’s face. He gave my hands a conspiratorial squeeze. Even though we were alone, he lowered his voice. “Damon was a tremendously astute programmer,” he said. “From the time he left UCLA and started working at our affiliate station in Los Angeles, I let him view the prime-time pilots and read scripts for proposed series. Of course, my programming people knew nothing about it. The shows Damon championed, I told my head of programming I wanted to try on the air. I only gave that order if the show’s creator was agreeable to giving up a small cut of his personal fee. To Damon, of course. If the show was a hit and stayed on the air long enough to begin eternal life in syndication, then Damon’s remuneration in time would amount to millions. The series creators realized having the largest share of something was preferable to having one hundred percent of nothing. I think it was rather clever of us—finding a way to reward Damon for his prescience without attracting the attention of the FCC. Or the stockholders who monitored salaries.”

Kickbacks. That was the source of Damon’s “royalties.” And the founder and chairman of Global Broadcasting was describing what amounted to extortion as just a creative form of executive compensation! “That’s so . . . imaginative,” I said.

“It was a much better arrangement than giving him the title of head of programming, where the media would watch him and snipe. As Vice President in Charge of Daytime, he was able to stay somewhat below the radar, continuing to be groomed by me until the day when I retire and . . .” His animation died out and his voice trailed off.

I gave Winston Yarborough my best big-eyed imitation of a Stepford Fiancée, thanked him for our talk, and said good-bye.

“My door is always open to you, Morgan,” he said. A hint of tears glittered in his eyes. “I’ll be in touch.”