think so
too."
"But why? Why me?"
"You're all he's got. And this
case needs to be solved. He's going to make it fit."
"But what about the
email?"
"Max, the email is fine and all,
but it doesn't prove anything. You're the one with motive; you're
the one with a history with the victim. You're the one who was
almost married to his wife. It doesn't look good, Max."
"Then why help me?"
"Because something inside is
telling me that you're not the guy. And I want to believe it, but
we need more. We need something to go on."
He trusted his gut. He had a hunch. He needed help.
He wanted to believe me. Wanted to help.
"Well, Kitty lied to me. About the
funeral. Told me she talked to Mike and Clarke, but she never did.
Mike told me that much. But I don't know why she lied."
"I guess that's
something."
"I also think Kitty and Mike are
having an affair."
That one knocked Carrington for a
loop. "Now that's something we could work with. And how do you know
that?"
"Miss Whitehall. Mike's wife just
about told her as much."
"At least we can work with
that."
"So now what?"
"You're free to go."
"For now?"
"For the time being. I'm going to
follow up on the information that you just gave me. But you know
the rules. No disappearing. You might be back sooner than
later."
He turned and walked back inside
as I stood and stared at the bricks. I took a deep breath, turned,
and walked over to my car. Disaster averted, again. I had the
feeling if there was a third time, it wouldn't be a
charm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After the whole jail scare, Imogen
and I returned to the city. The holidays were right around the
corner. We had already celebrated Thanksgiving, the weather had
turned, and now the slight chill in the air had transformed, to my
horror, into bone-chilling cold. POP was moving along, though, and
I was quite optimistic that we had a decent shot at closing our
round of funding, thanks in large part to Baxter, Miller &
Clarke, by Christmas. Over the past two weeks my office has been
communicating with BMC in order to secure the funding that Mike and
I had discussed over dinner. I had not chatted with Mike nor seen
him since that night at Gramercy Tavern. I had, however, tried to
contact Clarke more than once. I'd left a few messages with his
secretary, but he had not returned my calls. Kitty, as well, had
faded into the background over the past two weeks. Not a peep had
emerged from her. I had no idea if she had tried to stop by my home
in the suburbs, but, even if she had, she must have figured out by
now that we were no longer living there. Either that or she
believed that she had the worst luck in the world trying to catch
me.
So far, Imogen and I agreed on one
thing. We both did not want me arrested for Ted's murder. The other
thing that we agreed on was Mike's involvement in Ted's death. His
email, his general demeanor at our dinner at Gramercy Tavern, and
the Kitty connection all gave him ample motive to kill Ted. And
John's questioning of me had changed our focus. Maybe this had
something to do with love. And greed. Those two emotions are very
powerful.
We still weren't ruling out Kitty
as the accomplice or murderer. Especially after she had lied to me.
But we were both confused as to why she would have bothered
soliciting my help or providing me with the email from Mike to
Ted.
Although I was now terrified that
I would end up back at the police station, this time to be
arrested, we had both decided that we would put the Ted
investigation to rest until after New Year's. I was determined to
enjoy the next few weeks and to plan a proper proposal to Imogen.
My thoughts veered toward renting a chateau in Whistler, British
Columbia, for some skiing, relaxing, and proposing. We would spend
our days enjoying top-notch skiing and then our nights in the
village of Whistler, a quaint, picturesque winter wonderland, for
dinner and drinks. Once back at the chateau we would sip wine in
our outdoor hot tub, resting our tired bones
too."
"But why? Why me?"
"You're all he's got. And this
case needs to be solved. He's going to make it fit."
"But what about the
email?"
"Max, the email is fine and all,
but it doesn't prove anything. You're the one with motive; you're
the one with a history with the victim. You're the one who was
almost married to his wife. It doesn't look good, Max."
"Then why help me?"
"Because something inside is
telling me that you're not the guy. And I want to believe it, but
we need more. We need something to go on."
He trusted his gut. He had a hunch. He needed help.
He wanted to believe me. Wanted to help.
"Well, Kitty lied to me. About the
funeral. Told me she talked to Mike and Clarke, but she never did.
Mike told me that much. But I don't know why she lied."
"I guess that's
something."
"I also think Kitty and Mike are
having an affair."
That one knocked Carrington for a
loop. "Now that's something we could work with. And how do you know
that?"
"Miss Whitehall. Mike's wife just
about told her as much."
"At least we can work with
that."
"So now what?"
"You're free to go."
"For now?"
"For the time being. I'm going to
follow up on the information that you just gave me. But you know
the rules. No disappearing. You might be back sooner than
later."
He turned and walked back inside
as I stood and stared at the bricks. I took a deep breath, turned,
and walked over to my car. Disaster averted, again. I had the
feeling if there was a third time, it wouldn't be a
charm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After the whole jail scare, Imogen
and I returned to the city. The holidays were right around the
corner. We had already celebrated Thanksgiving, the weather had
turned, and now the slight chill in the air had transformed, to my
horror, into bone-chilling cold. POP was moving along, though, and
I was quite optimistic that we had a decent shot at closing our
round of funding, thanks in large part to Baxter, Miller &
Clarke, by Christmas. Over the past two weeks my office has been
communicating with BMC in order to secure the funding that Mike and
I had discussed over dinner. I had not chatted with Mike nor seen
him since that night at Gramercy Tavern. I had, however, tried to
contact Clarke more than once. I'd left a few messages with his
secretary, but he had not returned my calls. Kitty, as well, had
faded into the background over the past two weeks. Not a peep had
emerged from her. I had no idea if she had tried to stop by my home
in the suburbs, but, even if she had, she must have figured out by
now that we were no longer living there. Either that or she
believed that she had the worst luck in the world trying to catch
me.
So far, Imogen and I agreed on one
thing. We both did not want me arrested for Ted's murder. The other
thing that we agreed on was Mike's involvement in Ted's death. His
email, his general demeanor at our dinner at Gramercy Tavern, and
the Kitty connection all gave him ample motive to kill Ted. And
John's questioning of me had changed our focus. Maybe this had
something to do with love. And greed. Those two emotions are very
powerful.
We still weren't ruling out Kitty
as the accomplice or murderer. Especially after she had lied to me.
But we were both confused as to why she would have bothered
soliciting my help or providing me with the email from Mike to
Ted.
Although I was now terrified that
I would end up back at the police station, this time to be
arrested, we had both decided that we would put the Ted
investigation to rest until after New Year's. I was determined to
enjoy the next few weeks and to plan a proper proposal to Imogen.
My thoughts veered toward renting a chateau in Whistler, British
Columbia, for some skiing, relaxing, and proposing. We would spend
our days enjoying top-notch skiing and then our nights in the
village of Whistler, a quaint, picturesque winter wonderland, for
dinner and drinks. Once back at the chateau we would sip wine in
our outdoor hot tub, resting our tired bones
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