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Two rings, and an answer. "Midtown North."
"Yes." Gloria glanced down at the piece of paper where she'd written the names Sabrina had given her a short while ago. "I'm trying to reach either Detective Whitman or Detective Barton. This is Gloria Radcliffe."
7:45 P.M.
Midtown North Precinct
Jeannie leaned across Frank's desk and drew a line through Claude Phelps's name. "That's another one down," she pronounced. "He might be a twitching nut job, but he's got ninety witnesses who were with him and his wife at his thirty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration at the Marriott Marquis on Monday evening." She tossed down her pen. "So that leaves us with one less suspect."
Frank munched on a cucumber slice. "Maybe I'm getting soft because I'm such a nut job myself these days, but I felt sorry for the guy when we questioned him. He obviously knew we'd heard horror stories about him twenty times over. That made him even more neurotic. I think he was half-expecting us to read him his rights on the spot."
"Yeah, I felt the same way. Funny thing is, nut job or not, I'm not surprised he has an alibi. Or a family who loves him, for that matter. There's something endearing about Claude Phelps, hyper though he is."
"As opposed to Stan Hager." Frank polished off another cucumber slice. "He's a wreck, too, but he's a hell of a lot smoother about it than Phelps is."
Jeannie nodded. "Hager gave us quite a runaround. He desperately wanted to keep the spotlight off himself. Now the question is, why? Is it because he's afraid of looking bad—to Brooks, to the company, maybe even to the industry as a whole if some nosy business reporters start speculating—or is it because he really has something to hide?"
"I'm on the fence on that one," Frank replied with a shrug. "The whole staff of Ruisseau speaks highly of him. That includes the handful of employees in their European operations. Hager commands a great deal of respect everywhere. And his loyalty to Brooks, and to the company, is undisputed by anyone—across the board. Still, just in case we decide to dig deeper, I made a couple of calls, got us the scoop on Hager's exes. Wife number one—Lily—remarried a dozen years ago. She lives on Long Island, with her husband and their ten-year-old son. Wife number two—Diane—decided her huge alimony checks were the only permanent fixtures she needed in her life. She's cruising the Greek Isles now, with her latest lover. She's due back in New York next week."
"A woman after my own heart," Jeannie noted wryly. "I kind of guessed that would be your reaction." Frank reseated the remaining cucumber slices in their Ziploc. "Which is why we both know the way this should play out, if we go the route of talking to the ex-wives."
"Sure do." A corner of Jeannie's mouth lifted. "You'll take the lead with Lily and I'll do the same with Diane. That gives you the family man angle, and me the woman-to-woman thing—two liberated divorcers living high on the hog." Jeannie grimaced. "Except in my case, it's minus the high on the hog. I knew I should have married for money. Then, when the marriage ended, I'd be set for life." She dug in her pocket, plucked out the Milky Way bar she'd shoved away earlier, and frowned as she saw it looked rather the worse for wear. "Great. Instead, I get squashed candy and a cranky partner."
"You want sympathy? Go somewhere else." Frank was studying the list of suspects. "Any candy— squashed, stale, even moldy—beats cucumber slices. As for your partner, I've been a puppy dog since you ripped into me this morning. So eat your Milky Way and count your blessings."
Frank's forehead creased in concentration. "We've eliminated most of the employees at Ruisseau's competition. As for Susan Lane, she's clean. Not only was she on her way to the U.S. Open when the shooting took place, she's got no motive. I've checked and double-checked. Brooks wasn't cheating on her. Hager was right about that. As for monetary gain and social status, the only way she'd continue enjoying those is with Brooks alive. She gets to attend all high-profile events on his arm. He's the single largest contributor to her YouthOp charity. And she's not named in his will."
"Right. So if inheriting was her goal, she'd be better off keeping him around long enough to make her Mrs. Carson Brooks, then bumping him off." Jeannie chewed her candy thoughtfully. "The other big question mark is Gloria Radcliffe. I tried reaching her. No answer. I left a message on her voice mail. I'm sure my call won't come as a surprise. Her daughter must have given her a heads-up about the direction our questions took. I can't wait to hear her answers."
The phone on Jeannie's desk rang, and she plucked it from the receiver. "Whitman."
"Stick?"
"Yeah, Parsons, it's me. What's up?"
"I've got a call for you. I think you'll want me to patch it through."
"Who is it?"
Getting her answer, Jeannie sat up straighter, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. "Speak of the devil," she hissed at Frank.
"Gloria Radcliffe?" he mouthed.
A hard nod. "Absolutely, put her through," she instructed. A pause. "Ms. Radcliffe, hello. I assume you got my message." She frowned. "That's odd. I left it this afternoon. Have you checked your voice mail?" A pause, and Jeannie's brows shot up a notch. "In Manhattan? Your daughter didn't mention you were here. Oh, I
see. So where are you now? Yes, that's close by. The precinct is on West 54th. If you go south on Fifth Avenue..." Jeannie broke off, abandoning the idea of direction-giving. A quick glance at her watch, and an equally quick decision. "My partner and I were just heading out. Stay put. We'll meet you in the hotel lounge. We can talk there. Right. We're on our way."
Jeannie was scrambling to her feet even as she put the phone back in its cradle. "She's at the Plaza Athenée. Apparently, she flew in a couple of hours ago to be with her daughter. She's waiting to have dinner with her. Sabrina's still at the hospital. She's meeting her mother in the hotel lounge at nine. That gives us over an hour. Let's get moving. If we want a shot at the truth, or at catching Gloria Radcliffe in a he, we'll do better if her daughter's not there. No moral support. No chance to embellish on a story to downplay guilt. I want to talk to Gloria Radcliffe alone."
CHAPTER 15
8:10 P.M.
Joe's Pizza, South Street Seaport
Russ Clark took his two slices of pepperoni pizza and his medium-size Coke and slumped into a booth. He'd been walking for over an hour trying to clear his head. It hadn't helped.
He'd been an intern at Ruisseau for almost two years now.
