I stared at her.
“We have constant Internet contact with the station,” she said, standing aside, waving me in. “Her death is headline news. I’m having coffee, Sergeant... LaCrosse, is it? Join me.”
She wheeled and stalked off toward the breakfast bar without waiting for an answer. She was used to being obeyed.
I followed her through the expansive living room, gleaming hardwood floors, overstuffed leather furnishings. Five wide-screen TV monitors were stacked in the living room, running live video feeds from the station. One had a schedule breakdown, a second the current programs on air. The rest showed breaking stories from the other networks. Sherry’s face stared out at me from two of them, her smile frozen in place. I looked away.
The kitchen was worthy of a five-star chef, burnished copper pots suspended over black granite countertops wide enough to land a plane on. I doubted Mrs. Milano had ever cooked in her life. The coffee maker was a PrimaDonna 6600. Top of the line. It hissed as she poured two cups. The aroma was exquisite.
“You said your husband is in New York?” I asked, taking a stool at the breakfast counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room. “When did he leave?”
“Jack’s been in the city all week.” She took the seat facing me across the bar and slid my cup over. “A conference at corporate headquarters. Meetings all day, every day.”
“Do you have a number for him there? We really do need to talk to him.”
“It won’t do you any good,” she said, eyeing me across the brim of her coffee cup. “My husband fields questions for a living, Sergeant, and I doubt he’ll be cooperative. You won’t get anything useful from him. Perhaps I can be of more help.”
“How so?”
“Jack will lie, trying to conceal his affair with Miss Sinclair,” she said bluntly. “I won’t.”
Surprised, I leaned back in my chair, scanning her face. It was a good face, fine bones, wide-set eyes. She met my stare straight on.
“So... you knew that Miss Sinclair and your husband were involved?”
“It’s not the first time this situation has come up. Jack’s an alpha male, an ambitious and attractive man. That’s why I married him. But — what was that phrase Hilary Clinton used? He’s always been a hard dog to keep on the porch? That’s why I insisted on an ironclad pre-nup before we married. My family has substantial assets. Jack has always worked for wages. It limits his options.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you, Mrs. Milano.”
“Call me Tess, please. We are discussing dark family secrets. My point is, that Jack’s affair with Miss Sinclair isn’t a secret, Sergeant, not from me, anyway. I met with Sherry last week. Frankly, I thought she might be trying to steal my husband. I intended to warn her off. To have her fired, if necessary.”
“How did it go?”
“We came to a meeting of the minds,” Tess Milano said drily. “Sherry was a very ambitious young woman. She said she had a job offer from a bigger station downstate and that it might be best for all concerned if she simply moved on.”
“And that was it?”
“Not quite. She did mention that moving is terribly expensive nowadays.”
“So instead of scaring her off, you wound up paying her off?”
“It was the simplest solution.”
“Did you tell your husband about it?”
“Of course. Jack was furious, at first. He probably had visions of eloping with his latest lady-friend, he often does. But eventually he faces the reality of living on half his salary in a shrinking job market, and comes to his senses.”
“And comes back to you?”
“He never actually leaves.” She sighed. “Girls like Sherry are a recurring fantasy, like running away to join the circus. I know my husband, Detective, and this may sound odd to you, but in spite of his faults, I love him dearly. In some ways, he’s like the child we never had. What do they call that syndrome? Boys who never grow up?”
“Peter Pan,” I said.
“That’s Jack, my eternal teenager. I’m sorry about what happened to Miss Sinclair, Detective, but my husband was not involved, nor was I. If you could keep our problems out of the press, I would be very grateful.”
The stress on very raised my eyebrows.
“A scandal could cost Jack his job and his work is terribly important to him. If any expenses come up, I’ll be happy to cover them.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. Milano. If I run into any expenses, I’ll let you know. Thanks for your time.”
She walked me to the door. I half expected her to slip me a tenner, like a bellhop.
Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been annoyed at being offered a payoff. Not this time. If she hadn’t offered, I would have asked.
I wanted that particular door left open. If it turned out that I wanted to meet her husband in some secluded spot, collecting a bribe would be a useful excuse.
But I didn’t think I’d need it. Lying is a social skill that requires practice. Tess Milano was a handsome woman born to a family with money. She was used to giving orders and seeing people jump. She probably didn’t lie often enough to get good at it.
She’d told me her story straight out, no signs of evasion. Didn’t echo questions, look away, or stammer. Her hands were rock steady. I was fairly sure she’d told me the truth.
Or what she believed the truth to be.
Sherry wasn’t a problem for the Milanos because Tess bought her off. Would Sherry have taken the money? In a heartbeat.
A quick check of her bank account would confirm the story, but I didn’t doubt it much. Milano wasn’t the man Sherry wanted in her life, and if she could cash out while getting rid of him, all the better.
Not the Milanos, then.
As I walked out, Sherry’s face was on all three screens. And it occurred to me that for the first time, she was exactly where she’d always wanted to be. Right in the middle of things.
But not like this. Not like this.
If Milano was out of the picture, that moved Rob Gilchrist directly into my sights. A trickier business. I’d been able to beat Zina to the Milanos because I had inside information and Milano wasn’t an obvious suspect. But as Sherry’s current boyfriend, Rob would be at the top of the suspect list. Approaching him openly could get me suspended, maybe fired, and I didn’t want that. Not yet, anyway.
The problem solved itself. Rob found me first.
I was in my office at Hauser Center when I got a buzz from the corporal on the front desk.
“Sergeant LaCrosse? You’ve got a visitor, says he’s an old friend. A Mr. Gilchrist?”
“Rob Gilchrist? Send him up.”
Calling us friends was a little strong. Robbie Gilchrist was a local legend. Two years ahead of me in Valhalla High School, he was a basketball star, a deadeye shooting guard. I played hockey. Our sports shared the same season, so we passed in the locker room and hit some of the same parties. We weren’t pals, but I knew who he was.
Everybody knew who Rob was. The Gilchrists are old Valhalla lumber money. They arrived with the timber trains that harvested the virgin forest like a field of wheat.
My people, the Metis, showed up around the same time, fleeing a failed rebellion against the Canadian government. In Canada, we’d been woodsmen, trappers, and traders. Voyageurs.
In Michigan, we became loggers, axe men, saw men, top men. The LaCrosses and our kin did the grueling, dangerous work that made the Gilchrists rich. When the timber was gone, the Metis stayed on, doing whatever work came to hand.
Merchants, mechanics, carpenters.
Cops.
I hadn’t seen Robbie in a few years. Tall and blond, he was a golden boy, blessed with looks and the money to dress well. He didn’t flaunt it, though. He was wearing a lambskin sport coat over a blue chambray shirt, fashionably faded jeans, no tie. North-country high fashion.