“Come finish getting her dressed for bed,” Skeli replied.
Given the alternative, I tried the Kid one more time. “Please. Can we put the machine down and have a nice bath? A nice warm bath with bubbles.”
He snarled. “You don’t get to just walk away. I’ll kill you first.”
“What?” I exploded. I held back from repeating the question. I knew what I had heard. “You may not speak to me what way.”
“I’ll kill you, bitch.”
The Kid was way too young for this over-the-top, hormone-driven teenage behavior. It could not be allowed. If I ever heard him talk to Skeli that way I would have a hard time holding my temper.
“You’re grounded, bud. No bath. Get your pajamas on and get into bed. And give me that damn computer.” I whisked it out of his hands and he began to scream. “You will get it back when you show you can control what comes out of your mouth.”
I was angry. We both knew it. But I had to show enough control for both of us. The Kid came at me, teeth gnashing, fingers curved like claws. I sidestepped him, grabbed him one-armed around the waist, and carried him to his room. I tossed him on the bed, a game we often played that usually made him laugh maniacally. He screamed again, then turned over and began to sob.
“When you’re ready to say you’re sorry, you can knock on the door. Until then, you will stay right here.
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” He spit the word out over and over, angry, hurt, and not the least bit contrite.
“Good night,” I said. I stepped out and shut the door.
Skeli was waiting in the hall, Tessa in her arms. “Are you all right? What was that all about?”
“I don’t really know. I certainly triggered something. He threatened to kill me.” I didn’t mention that he had called me “bitch.” I’d been out of prison longer than I’d been in, but the word still carried weight. I tried to shake it off. “We’ll get over it. I’ll talk to his therapist tomorrow.”
“Well, somehow you got the computer away from him.” She smiled and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Let me get her settled and I’ll give you a neck massage.”
I hid the iPad in my office on a shelf behind a row of books — all Library of America collections that I had picked up at the Strand — and poured myself two fingers of Widow Jane. I thought about pouring a third finger, but held off. As bad as the evening had been, it was a sure bet the next morning was going to be worse.
Hal Morris and I met Virgil in his office at six-thirty. Hal had been a U.S. marshal, but after working with him on a case in the Southwest, I had asked Virgil to hire him as head of Compliance. If you were guilty of anything, he was the man who might scare you into a confession. He didn’t say much, and the only thing he admitted to being frightened of was riding the New York City subway.
“She called this meeting,” Virgil said as the clock ticked toward six thirty-five. He quite clearly meant, “Where the hell is she?” but he had too much class to say it out loud.
Virgil’s office was utilitarian. There were plenty of chairs, as he often held meetings there, but they weren’t very comfortable. If offices spoke, his would have said, “We’re all very busy people, so let’s get this over with and get back to work.”
“Traffic? Problems with the daughter? Her ex was hanging around the hotel lobby. Who knows? She’ll be here.”
The analysts’ briefing was scheduled for nine. The press conference was set for nine-fifteen. Everyone would have a break to watch the opening on the NYSE, then the sales meetings would get under way at ten. We had plenty of time, but I could understand Virgil’s impatience. It was a tightly scripted morning.
“Ten minutes,” Virgil said. “Then you call your friend.”
I had a long history with a special agent at the F.B.I., but neither of us would have characterized it as friendship.
“Fifteen?” I countered. Never take the first offer.
“No,” he said.
His desk phone rang. He hit the speakerphone button and spoke. “Becker.”
“Mr. Becker? This is front-desk security calling. Sorry to bother you so early in the day, but there are two NYPD detectives here who want to come up.”
Virgil’s eyes widened. “And they want to talk to me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do they say what they want?”
“No, sir, but they’re from Homicide.”
Sybil Cooper was found dead in her suite by the maid who had gone in to do the evening turndown. The daughter was missing. Detectives Masi and Menendez had been up all night working the case and wanted “background” information. Virgil and I filled them in, answering as many questions as we could. In return, we got to ask one or two.
“How did she die?” I asked. I wanted to ask, “Did she suffer?” but forced myself to maintain a professional veneer. We were talking about someone I knew and cared about; Sybil was not merely a body.
Masi wore her hair cropped short and had hooded, tired eyes. She was in charge, and while she didn’t flaunt it, there was no question about it either. Menendez sat back and tried to make himself comfortable in his chair. The effort was pointless.
“Multiple blows to the head and neck,” Masi answered. “We’re thinking a curved object. A bar or a pipe. The perp probably brought it with him and took it away when he left.”
Premeditation, I thought. Murder, not manslaughter.
“You’re sure it’s a he?” Virgil asked.
“There’d be video,” Hal interjected. “The corridors, the lobby, the elevators.” He turned to Masi. “Do you have him?”
“We will,” Menendez answered. He was wearing a striped shirt with a paisley tie. He either thought of himself as daring, fashionwise, or he was unmarried. I would have bet the latter.
“I spoke to her yesterday,” I said. “She told me her ex-husband was stalking her. But she didn’t sound afraid. Annoyed, maybe.”
“Where were you yesterday evening?” Menendez asked.
As a general rule, I try to avoid talking to the police. Living a life of perpetual suspicion, dividing humanity into perps and marks, and constantly being faced with the collateral damage of sociopaths tends to make one an uncomfortable companion. Their job was tough too. And, having once been to prison, I would always be, in their eyes, an ex-con. Unreliable at best. Most likely a liar. As a witness, I would be willing to sell my testimony to the highest bidder. But always a suspect.
“Home,” I said.
“Alone?”
“With my family,” I answered.
“We can check that.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Virgil cut us off before we got to slapping each other and saying things like “Am too!” and “Are not!”
“Are you sure it’s the husband?”
Masi nodded. “Pretty sure. At this point, he is a person of interest, but your man is right. We have him on video. We’ve matched the face to his California driver’s license. We have him leaving the hotel with the daughter a little after five.”
“It’s been an ugly custody battle,” I said. “But the daughter wouldn’t sneak out with her dad if her mother was bleeding out on the floor upstairs.”
“No,” Masi said. “We think he came back. Alone. We’ve got a man delivering a large bouquet ten minutes later. He’s very careful to keep the flowers covering his face, but he fits the body type. We can see Ms. Cooper let him in. Five minutes later, he comes out. Still carrying the flowers.”
“Same issue. Different problem,” I said. “There’s no way Sybil would have let her daughter take off with Dieter like that.”
Masi shook her head. “They had a two-bedroom suite. When we came in, the other door was closed and the television was on. Ms. Cooper might never have known the girl was gone.”
“Any sign of the two of them?” Virgil asked.