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Shoving those thoughts aside, she looked up at the chalkboard as McCord pointed to the first name on it and said, “What about Jane Sebring, the costar? She said she went home and went to bed, then she got up later, and watched a movie on television. How thoroughly did you check out her alibi?” he asked Shrader and Womack.
“Her doorman confirmed that she returned to the building late in the afternoon, after the matinee,” Womack said. “Her car service confirmed her ride from the theater to her apartment building at that time. That’s not saying, however, that she didn’t sneak out the back way later, rent a car or something, and drive herself to the mountains.”
“Start checking out the car rental companies, and also check her credit card receipts and her LUDS.”
Shrader nodded. “I’ll check the other car services, too—”
Womack guffawed. “What—like she had a chauffeur drive her into the mountains, and wait for her, while she trotted down to the cabin and blew Manning away?”
Shrader actually blushed. His big, ferocious-looking face took on a hangdog expression, and he stared at his lap, shaking his head in disbelief. “I realized before I finished the sentence that couldn’t have happened.”
“Let’s move on,” McCord said, but a smile was tugging at his lips at Shrader’s rare lapse into bad logic. “What about Trish Lefkowitz, the publicist?”
“Her alibi holds water,” Womack said.
“Too bad,” McCord said dryly, drawing a line through her name. “Trish has the balls to shoot a guy in the head and remember to clean up the dishes in the kitchen afterward.”
“You talking from personal knowledge, Lieutenant?” Shrader asked.
Sam was glad he asked that question, but she kept her expression perfectly bland as she waited for McCord to reply. His reply was a short laugh and an eloquent shudder. “No.”
Sam believed him. She just wished she hadn’t made that suggestive wisecrack about having had a massage last night. She was not only new at being in love, she was completely unprepared to handle that earthshaking experience with someone she worked for and with.
She’d made an agreement with Mack about how they were going to go on until the Manning case was over, and she’d broken it within minutes after walking into his office. And what made that much worse was that she was truly touched by his reasons for wanting the agreement. Unfortunately, she didn’t think Mack would let her default pass without comment, which was why she had every intention of making a beeline out of his office the moment this meeting concluded.
“What about Sybil Haywood, the astrologer?” Mack asked. “She’s attractive enough to interest Manning.”
“What a kook!” Shrader said, slapping his knee for emphasis. “Before she’d talk to me when I got there, I had to give her my ‘birth data’; then she ran some sort of computer program on my planets or some damned thing. She called it my ‘astrological chart.’?”
“What about it?” McCord asked, referring to her alibi.
Shrader misunderstood and thought he was asking about the astrological chart. “She said a young female who is close to me, but not a family member, is in grave danger, but could not be saved. She said I should remember that this life is only a stopping place to the next one, and we’ll be together again.”
“Did she have an alibi and was it solid?” McCord asked derisively.
“Yes to both questions. I just remembered something the Haywood woman told me,” Shrader added as McCord turned to draw a line through Haywood’s name. “I blew it off before, but she said that on the night of the party, Leigh Manning recruited her to entertain Valente. Haywood said Mrs. Manning was upset that he’d been invited—you know, because of his lousy reputation.”
McCord nodded. “Which further substantiates the idea that Leigh Manning didn’t know who Valente really was that night.” He glanced at the next name on the chalkboard. “What about Theta Berenson? She’s the artist.”
“She’s got an alibi and it checks out,” Shrader said. “Anyway, Manning wouldn’t have laid a hockey stick on her, let alone a hand. If being ugly was a crime, they’d be hunting that woman down with helicopters and bloodhounds.”
“Shrader,” McCord said with a reluctant smile, turning to mark off her name, too, “I hate to be the first to tell you this, but you’re not exactly a Chippendales dancer, yourself.”
Sam looked at her tablet to hide her smile. She looked up again as McCord folded his arms across his chest and turned back to the chalkboard, looking at the names left there.
“What about Claire Straight?” he asked.
“She’s got a sound alibi,” Womack said. “And she hates men. Her husband dumped her for a sweet, young thing half his age, and the woman is obsessed. If you ask me, she’s turning into a lesbian over this divorce.”
“Can that happen?” Shrader asked, looking to Sam for an answer. “Do you think a formerly heterosexual woman can turn into a lesbian because a man cheated on her?”
Unaware that McCord had glanced over his shoulder, Sam leaned forward, smiled widely at Shrader, and said, “Yes, definitely. That’s how it happened to me.”
She leaned back suddenly, turned her head, and caught McCord looking at her. He had a look of pained laughter on his face; then he shook his head slightly and turned back to the chalkboard. Sam was a detective, too—she noticed that odd little shake of his head, and she identified it. It was the same thing she’d done a few moments before, trying to concentrate on work at hand instead of him.
“Erin Gillroy, Manning’s secretary,” Mack said, tapping the chalk next to that name.
“Didn’t ask her for an alibi,’ Womack admitted. “Did you, Littleton?”
“No. I should have, though. At the time, I didn’t think she was a candidate. I still don’t, but you never know.”
“Handle that, Womack,” McCord said, then he pointed to the new name on the chalkboard. “Okay, here’s the last woman on today’s list: Sheila Winters.”
“The shrink?” Shrader wrinkled his nose. “Jeez, can you imagine making love to a shrink while she analyzes the underlying meaning of your every groan?”
“Can we knock off the suggestive commentary and sexual references,” Mack said testily. “What the hell is going on in here this morning?”
Shrader and Womack exchanged a startled look. McCord had made a comment himself about Trish Lefkowitz. Law enforcement was a tough, male-dominated domain, and nothing was taboo among the “bo
ys.” As long as they didn’t aim it at Sam, they were pretty much free to carry on even under the department’s regulations.
“Littleton and I interviewed Dr. Winters,” Mack continued, “but not as a potential suspect, so we didn’t ask for an alibi. She’s blond and attractive, and Manning liked attractive blondes. She’s a long shot, in my opinion, but we’ll pay her another visit. That brings us to the three males on the list,” he concluded. “The first name is George Sokoloff, the architect. Littleton checked out his alibi, and it’s believable but not one we can completely substantiate.”
“Motive?” Womack questioned.
McCord was quiet, thinking. “We’ll have to check out his claims, but if he’s telling the truth, he was the real talent behind several of Manning’s successful projects. Manning had promised him full credit and major responsibility for the Crescent Plaza project. Maybe Manning told him he wasn’t going to deliver on those promises.”
Pointing to the last two names, Mack said, “That brings us to Jason Solomon, and his boyfriend, Eric Ingram.”
“They’re each other’s alibi,” Womack said; then he belatedly recounted what they’d learned about the two hundred thousand dollars cash Manning had used to buy a share in Solomon’s play.
“Let’s keep digging there,” Mack said. “I think the path to our killer is probably going to be paved with greenbacks. We need to find out where the hell Manning was getting his hands on enough illegal cash to not only cover his additional office and living expenses, but buy cars for himself, and a share in a Broadway play, to name just the few items we already know of. Based on the way he was spending it, he seemed to be confident there was plenty more coming.”
Womack took a sip of his cold coffee, then put the cup back on the desk. “Maybe he was peddling drugs?”
