After Michael dropped Toni off at the apartment, he instructed the taxi driver to return to police headquarters. He took the stairs and descended to the evidence room on the lowest level. Luckily, Barney, whom he’d known for years, was on duty at the desk in front of the wire-enclosed section of the vast room.
“Hiya, Counselor. How ya doin’?”
“Good. And you?”
“No complaints. Can I do something for you?”
“As a matter of fact, there is something. My client was looking at some photographs this afternoon. The Craig Landis murder. You familiar with that?”
“They sent some stuff down already. Why you asking?”
“A technical problem. Nothing serious, but could I look at the prints again, now?”
“Just a quick look? Sure. Since they only came down a couple hours ago, I know right where they are.” He unlocked the gate to the evidence section and entered. He disappeared momentarily behind a stack of metal shelves. Moments later he returned with a thick package. A label with red numbers and some signatures was fastened to the front.
Mike sat in front of the desk and opened the flap on the bundle. After a quick examination of the photos he and Toni had looked at that afternoon, he pulled his cellphone from his pocket. “Mind if I just take a couple of shots?”
Barney frowned. “No, I can’t do nuthin’ like that. I can’t let anything happen to evidence.”
“I’m not going anywhere with them. Just making a copy.”
Barney stared at Mike for a long time, then scratched his head. “I’ll have to ask permission.” He headed for the doorway Mike had used on entering. “Be right back.”
Mike lost no time in pulling out the photographs and quickly photographing them one at a time with the camera in his cellphone. He had barely finished and pushed the last photo into the large envelope when Barney returned and grabbed the bundle.
Without looking at Mike, he said, “Sorry. They said you can’t do that.” He headed for the evidence room gate.
“I understand,” Mike said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
Barney turned briefly. “Thanks. Good luck, Counselor.”
* * *
At eight in the morning, Suzanne Landis sat in the dining room of the Upper East Side townhouse she and her husband had shared and refilled her brother’s cup with coffee. It had been five days since Craig’s funeral, and Paul would be leaving that day.
“I hope you have a good attorney.” He stirred sugar and cream into the cup.
“Like I told you, he can make an ordinary document look as important as the Dead Sea Scrolls. And vice versa, if that’s what I need.”
“Call him today.” He finished his coffee and pushed the china cup and saucer aside. Then he checked the gold Rolex on his wrist and stood. “I have a plane to catch. “
Although she hadn’t seen Paul in almost two years, she didn’t try to delay him. He was the only member of her family for whom she had any respect. Like her, he’d climbed out of the same pit of poverty that had made every day of their childhood a misery. They both remembered cardboard in their shoes, hand-me-downs that never fit, and constant hunger—scraping together pennies to buy a carton of milk to go with their meager bag lunches at school.
The buzzer in the foyer sounded. Paul went to the window, and pushing aside the curtain, looked into the street. “Cab’s here. I’d better go or I’ll miss my flight.”
“I appreciate your coming all this way.”
“This is no time for you to be alone. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”
Of her five brothers, only he had amounted to anything. Toughened by street fights, he entered college on an athletic scholarship. Now he was an executive with Ford’s Lincoln Division in Dearborn, Michigan.
He paused at the door. “What about that woman who caused trouble at the funeral?”
“Kristianna?” The thought of the model, obviously pregnant, made Suzanne’s throat tighten. “I can’t believe Craig is the father of her child. Or that she has a letter written by him to prove it.”
“She could be telling the truth. To make a scene like that at a man’s funeral gives it a ring of authenticity. You can’t fight DNA evidence. If Craig fathered the model’s baby and promised a specific amount of money over time, it could hurt you a lot financially.”
“With Craig, anything was possible. Don’t think we had the ‘moonlight and roses’ type of marriage. But, knowing him, if Kristianna does have a letter promising support for the child, I’m sure he kept the original. I’d like to know exactly what it says, see if it looks like it will hold up in court. When it came to responsibility, Craig never thought past himself, believe me.”
“Too bad you didn’t know that before you married the guy.”
She’d had her reasons. “Where money was concerned? He was never Mr. Generous, certainly not to the tune of thousands a month.” Her teeth began to grind. Those were her thousands Kristianna wanted to claim.
“She wasn’t the only woman he had an affair with, I suppose.”
Suzanne laughed without humor. “He had other women all right, but none of them will see a penny of his estate.”
“What about Toni Abbott, the actress he was with when he was killed?”
“Her, too.” She knew Craig had once dated Toni, and no way did she believe the late night photo session hadn’t included a roll on the floor. However, Toni was not her immediate problem. Kristianna and her insistence that she could prove Craig fathered her baby occupied that slot.
“I have to find the letter he wrote claiming responsibility for Kristianna’s child.”
“When you do, get it to your lawyer. If he’s as good as you say he is, he can see that your assets are protected.”
“Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.” She’d been caring for herself since she’d left home at sixteen, lied about her age, and taken a night job in a factory. Determined to become a model, she made the rounds by day. Three years and a few compromises later, she was on the cover of Mademoiselle. Then, eventually, she’d married Craig. He’d thought it time to settle down, sensed she’d be “understanding” about his little flings. In the long run she hadn’t, and they fought bitterly.
After Paul left for the airport, she turned her focus back to the document Kristianna insisted Craig had drawn up. Where would Craig have hidden something as important as that? A safe deposit box? That seemed logical. She would have to look for another key. He wouldn’t have used the box they shared. His studio had yielded nothing. Just the day before, she’d let herself in and searched his files and desk to no avail. Perhaps an attorney, then, someone she didn’t know about. That might prove insurmountable.
Or, was it possible the police had it? She hated the police, the way they summoned her to headquarters for questioning. Intimidating her with not-so-subtle reminders that she, as the widow, was a prime suspect. As if she hadn’t seen enough movies to know that. She hadn’t given the detectives permission for a search warrant for the studio, but they’d taken all of Craig’s cameras and some of his files, saying they’d return everything. This house wasn’t the murder scene either, but they’d snooped into Craig’s home files, asking if he’d had any death threats, wanting to see his will and insurance policies, to say nothing of financial records. Still, she hadn’t been arrested and probably wouldn’t be. Just let them try to prove anything against her. She went upstairs to the bedroom she’d shared with Craig, where the small Renoir, antique French furniture, and thick carpeting greeted her. Craig’s chest of drawers stood in an alcove. Could he have been that cavalier to have left such incriminating evidence lying around? Why not? He’d been unprepared for death and the exposure of his little secret.
She yanked out the top drawer and spilled its contents on the bed. A thorough search yielded nothing. The other drawers quickly followed until the D. Porthault sheets were littered with his expensive, intimate possessions. She heedlessly tossed socks, jewelry, shirts, in all directions. Conchita could sort the mess when she came in later to clean. Once more, her efforts yielded nothing but disappointment.
Craig’s bathroom then, the one off the hallway. She’d kept the master bath for herself, and why not? Until she left those five crammed rooms known as “home sweet home,” she’d shared a single dingy bath with seven people. Never would she share again.
She pushed open the door. Imported tile, acres of mirrors, and gold-plated fixtures gleamed antiseptically under recessed ceiling lights. Conchita’s meticulous hand at work. Which gave her pause. Would he leave a paper admitting he fathered another woman’s child where the maid might uncover it? Not Craig. She turned to leave, then stopped in the doorway. As long as she was there ….
Six drawers under the marble countertop yielded nothing interesting. She turned to the linen closet. The louvered doors sprang open at her touch. Her searching hands pushed through towels, terry robes in several colors, and two blow driers. A cardboard carton, imprinted with a picture of a foot massager, occupied a far corner of the top shelf. As she slid it forward, a bottle tipped over onto the terrazzo floor and broke with a startling pop. She gave a low curse. A green puddle spread among the shards of glass. Mouth wash. She side-stepped around it, and standing on tiptoe, grasped a side flap of the box and dragged it down.
She upended the heavy carton over the counter. The massager landed with a bang. But not the thick manila envelope that she guessed did not contain the manufacturer’s instructions.
She opened the flap carefully. Color photographs—at least a dozen, every detail sharp—plus a sheet of paper containing a list of names, slid out into her hands. Maybe she hadn’t been the brightest child in school, but once on her own, she’d learned quickly about life in the hard, unforgiving world. After a few minutes, the meaning of the pictures and the list became clear. Apparently, Craig swam in very choppy seas. If she decided to act on the impulse that now charged her body with electricity, she would have to be very careful indeed.
Her latest find would take preference over Kristianna’s claim. That could wait. After weighing every possibility, she made her plan. What she held in her hands was worth a great deal of money. That was, after all, why she’d married Craig. Better than waiting until her career went into decline. Money. Together with Craig’s insurance and what she could get selling his business to Ted, these photos would keep life comfortable. Besides, blackmail could go on for years. Yet, she’d better not discount the danger, or once again, she could end up sleeping beside Craig.
Back in the bedroom, she pushed aside his belongings and sat down on the edge of the bed to think. Her own safety must be her first concern. How to secure that, though? Why not score both ways? Blackmail first for a healthy chunk of cash, then send copies of the evidence to the police? With the guilty party in jail, she’d be safe.
She pulled the telephone onto the slate gray sheets and dialed. The person she wanted to speak to answered the phone. “This is Suzanne Landis,” she said. “Are you alone?”
Satisfied with the answer, she continued. “I’m going to read three names. Then you guess what wonderful treasure I’ve found. ‘Carstairs, Quartermain, Ogilthorpe.’ ”
A long pause followed her recitation, then an almost muffled expletive.
Suzanne laughed. “I want half a million dollars, or I’ll put this into the hands of the police.” She listened to the arguments on the other side and countered with her own. Having deliberately set a high figure, she settled on three-quarters of that amount. From no doubt undeclared income.
“I want it in cash this afternoon.” She shunted aside more arguments. “You have ample time to get it together. Just do whatever is necessary.” She listened again. “No, you cannot come here. We’ll meet in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel at three o’clock to exchange envelopes. Yours will contain money, mine the incriminating documents. Don’t be late.”
She slammed down the phone. Craig certainly had his secrets. This one must have proven quite lucrative. He’d never shared the fruits with her, but that didn’t matter now. She was carrying on the family business, so to speak. Not that she planned to spend any of the money in the immediate future. It would have to go into a safe deposit box. Or better yet, an off-shore account that paid interest, one that couldn’t be traced back to her. Next week she’d have to research that.
She went to the closet, selected a pale blue linen suit, and dressed quickly. She’d photocopy the evidence in her possession before she handed it over in exchange for the cash. She laughed out loud. The dumb little girl from Buffalo wasn’t so dumb, after all.