Fatal Impressions Page 7

  “Coleman’s right. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t say a word till I arrive. Can you transfer me to one of the officers?”

  “Yes, of course. Thanks, Rob,” she said.

  The next voice he heard was deep and gruff.

  “Harrison,” the man said. Rob identified himself as Dinah’s attorney and said he’d be with them in an hour. “Till then, I don’t want you to speak to my client. Is that clear?”

  “Yeah.”

  He sounded surly, but Rob was confident Harrison would do as he was told, at least for now. Before Rob saw Dinah or talked to the police waiting to interrogate her, he needed information about this death. When he spoke to Coleman, she hadn’t been sure that it was murder. Maybe the problem had disappeared. If only. He telephoned a highly placed friend at One Police Plaza and inquired about the case.

  “We’re treating it as a suspected homicide. Someone loosened the brackets holding the bookcases to the wall, and after that, it didn’t take much to pull them down. The woman was crushed—killed instantly—those bookcases and books weighed hundreds of pounds. The victim was Frances Victor Johnson, fifty-five, divorced, head of human resources at DDD&W. She was identified by her sister, Patti Sue Victor, who also works there. Because of Johnson’s job, she could open any locked door, but she had no business in that office. No one knows why she was there,” his friend said.

  “When did Johnson die?” Rob asked.

  “Between two and four Thursday morning. The brackets must have been loosened earlier, but someone had to be in the office at the critical moment to make sure the bookcases fell on the right person. Hunt Frederick—the big deal whose office it is—was with clients in Chicago on Wednesday. Came back on a charter jet in the wee small hours, landed at Teterboro Airport at five thirty this morning, and went straight to the office. He’s in the clear.”

  Rob made a few notes. Then, “Okay, got that. What else?”

  “Frederick’s secretary said the office was locked, and no one—including her—went in there all day Wednesday. She ate lunch at her desk and left for the day at five thirty. If she’s telling the truth—and we think she’s squeaky clean—someone got in after five thirty Wednesday night to loosen the brackets—and—”

  “Wait a minute, how do you know the shelves were loosened that night? Couldn’t someone have slipped past the secretary during the day?”

  “We think whoever did it wouldn’t have left the shelves hanging loose for long—they might have fallen accidentally, or might have been spotted. And no one could have been sure the office would be empty all day Wednesday, or if she left her desk, that she wouldn’t return and catch him or her in the act. To get out of the frame, Ms. Greene needs an alibi for the hours between five thirty p.m. Wednesday and five a.m. today. The suits at DDD&W will throw her to the wolves if they can. It’s CYA time,” his friend said.

  “How strong is the case against her?” Rob asked.

  “It’s pretty good. Her gallery is in financial trouble, and she needs the DDD&W job. Patti Sue Victor didn’t want her at DDD&W—Victor wants to be in charge of art and wanted DDD&W to hire a consultant that sucked up to her and gave her credit for everything to do with the company’s art collection. Victor told everyone that Dinah Greene was trying to steal her job, and her sister supported her. Both Johnson and Victor were agitating to oust Ms. Greene, and some people think they would have succeeded. There’s your motive, whether Ms. Greene intended to kill Victor or Johnson: get rid of the sisters before they got rid of her, and try to make it look like an accident. As you know, Ms. Greene discovered the body, and her excuse for being in the office this morning is weak. Why would she come in to check on work she’d finished last night? And everyone knows Ms. Greene hangs prints and can handle tools as well as a carpenter. She’s physically capable of doing the job. She’s the only stranger in the place, and the murder took place right after she started to work at DDD&W. If she doesn’t have an alibi, they’ll have nearly enough to arrest her,” his friend warned. “If she was a nobody, I think they’d indict her with what they have. But given who she is, they’ll have to go slow.”

  Rob wasn’t surprised that the brass knew all about the crime. A murder inside a company like DDD&W would make headlines, and the Hathaway name would raise warning signs all over the case. There’d be a lot of pressure on the police to solve this one fast, but they’d want to get it right. They wouldn’t arrest Dinah unless they were sure she was guilty, but they wouldn’t do anything to help her either.

  The limo slowed, and Rob glanced out the window. They had arrived at the building on Fifty-Seventh Street where the Greene Gallery was located.

  Thirteen

  When Rob saw the massive detectives looming in the spare black-and-white gallery, he wasn’t intimidated—he was as big as they were—but he was annoyed. They’d obviously hoped to catch Dinah without Coleman or a lawyer at her side. They’d reckoned without the steel in that magnolia, and they hadn’t known about Bethany Byrd, assistant manager of the gallery, and one of Dinah’s closest friends.

  Rob greeted Dinah, who whispered that Bethany had refused to allow the detectives to enter the private part of the gallery and had threatened to call the police. Told that they were the police, Bethany said she found that hard to believe, and they’d have to show her a search warrant before she let them in. She knew some real police, she said, and they didn’t look and act like bozos. She said that if they’d been halfway polite, she’d have offered them chairs from the conference room. But they’d been so rude, they could stand there all day for all she cared. After firing her barrage, Bethany had returned to her desk and her paperwork, while Dinah studied auction catalogues in her office, pretending not to hear the disturbance in the gallery.

  The detectives gnashed their teeth and snarled, but Bethany, all five feet five inches and 110 pounds of gorgeous in a golden brown knit suit that matched the color of her skin, held her Nefertiti head high and ignored them. Dinah said Bethany looked like a Siamese kitten hissing and spitting at a pair of pit bulls. The pit bulls had retreated.

  Dinah seemed fine, maybe too relaxed given the situation, but in good shape to answer questions. She’d snapped back fast after her gruesome early morning discovery. Rob had seen Coleman behave the same way; he never ceased to marvel at the Greene cousins’ resilience. Maybe that’s what a tough childhood did for you—they’d been orphaned at an early age, grew up desperately poor, and had worked hard for everything they’d achieved.

  He joined the detectives in the outer gallery. “What exactly do you want?” Rob said, after examining their identification.

  “To talk to Ms. Greene,” Harrison said.

  “Didn’t Coleman Greene tell you that Dinah Greene Hathaway wouldn’t speak to you without an attorney present?”

  Harrison scowled. “Little blondie with the big mouth? Who’d listen to her? She screwed up a case for friends of mine earlier this year. She better stay outta my way, or she’ll find out what happens to a bimbo obstructing the NYPD.”

  Rob clenched his fists. “You’ve been misinformed. Coleman Greene solved that case when the police went in the wrong direction and looked like fools. You should have listened to her. Now listen to me: if you approach my client again without an attorney present, I will take every possible step to see you unemployed.”

  “That blonde is a nosy busybody, and the cops I know say different about her. What makes you think you know better than them? I won’t have her messing around in my case!” Harrison shouted.

  “We’re just trying to do our jobs. We could take her downtown,” Quintero whined.

  Rob considered Quintero. The guy had huge bags under his bloodshot eyes. Was he ill? “You could, and I’d be there, and I’d tell her not to speak to you. I’d also make sure that the press turned up so we’d have plenty of evidence of your mishandling of this case. I know you’ve been told to walk on eggshells, so look out. I’ll watch your every move. What do you want to ask Ms. Greene?”
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br />   “Where she was yesterday and last night,” Quintero said.

  “All right. Keep it polite, and make it brief. My client is exhausted. And Harrison, stop shouting. Nobody’s deaf here.”

  They sat down in the little conference room, where the walls were hung with brilliant colored woodcuts of cheerful land and seascapes Rob recognized as scenes from Provincetown, Massachusetts. This was a room people usually enjoyed. Not today. The cops didn’t notice the prints. They looked like hungry hyenas regarding Dinah as prey.

  Dinah laid a green file folder on the conference table. Rob picked it up, glanced through the papers inside, and nodded approval. Dinah’s brain was working. When required, the steel emerged from beneath the creamy fragrant petals.

  “Where were you all day Wednesday?” Harrison asked.

  “I was at DDD&W early to meet the movers delivering prints, and then back here in the gallery from nine thirty to six thirty. Around six thirty yesterday evening, I left here to go back to DDD&W. I took a taxi and got there about seven.”

  “You say ‘about seven.’ Can’t you be more exact?”

  “No, but I’m sure the building’s security people can. The guards checked our ID when we arrived, and the guys who were with me to hang the prints can help, too.”

  “I’ll need their names,” Harrison said.

  Dinah handed him a typed sheet of paper. “I thought you would.”

  Harrison glanced at it and passed it to Quintero.

  “Were you and these guys together all night?” Quintero asked.

  “I went to the restroom once,” Dinah said.

  “While you were on thirty-three, did ya see anybody?” Harrison wanted to know.

  “Early in the evening, there were people wandering around, but I didn’t see anyone I knew,” Dinah said.

  Harrison leaned closer to Dinah, and she moved away from him, pushing her chair back from the table.

  “Was the door to Frederick’s office open?” Harrison asked.

  “I was never in the corridor outside his office.”

  “C’mon,” Harrison said, scowling. “Stick to the facts, lady. You were working in the dining room. It’s next door to his office.”

  Dinah took a photocopied floor plan of the thirty-third floor from her folder and handed it to him. “We came up this way,” she said, pointing out the alternative route to the dining room.

  Harrison leaned closer. “Why’d ya go that way?”

  “It’s the nearest way from the elevator,” Dinah said, scooting her chair back from the table again. Rob could see she was trying to get as far away as possible from Harrison. Not surprising. The man smelled like an ashtray after an all-night poker game.

  “Why use the elevator and not the stairs? You’re young and healthy,” Harrison said. He leered at her breasts, subtly outlined under her loose sweater. When he noticed Rob glaring at him, he licked his lips.

  Rob gritted his teeth. Harrison was looking for a fight and he’d get one, but not today. Rob needed time to marshal his forces.

  Dinah’s cheeks turned pink, but her voice was steady. “The men were carrying tools, hanging materials, framed prints, and two ladders. I was carrying prints and sketches of how I wanted them hung. It made sense to use the elevator.”

  “What time did ya leave?” Harrison asked.

  “Around midnight.” She handed him another piece of paper from her folder. “Tom, our driver—he’s a retired policeman, this is his address and telephone number—can tell you exactly when, I’m sure, as can the building people. They signed us out.”

  Harrison sneered. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned the building guards. I bet it’s pretty easy to get by those guys late at night.”

  Dinah looked at him, her expression thoughtful, then turned to Rob. “Rob, you should talk to the building owner. It’s the Fry Building at Forty-Eighth and Park—Jonathan and Greg Fry were at Harvard together. The Frys will be interested in Detective Harrison’s low opinion of their guards. If people hear that the police think the building has poor security, it could hurt the Frys financially. I’m sure they’d be unhappy about what Mr. Harrison has to say about their building.”

  It was Harrison’s turn to flush. He stood up and loomed over Dinah, his face close to hers. “Feel free to quote me, but if that’s a threat, you’re wasting your time. If I was you, I’d be looking to prove you didn’t leave your apartment this morning between one and five.”

  Dinah’s smile was polite. “Thank you for the advice. Is there anything else you want to know?”

  “You say you left the Fry Building around midnight Wednesday. What time did you get home?” Quintero asked.

  “I rode with Tom to take the guys home, and then I walked the dog outside our house. It was around one when I locked up for the night. Again, Tom can tell you exactly—he waited to see me go in. I was in bed with the lights out by one thirty.”

  “Can anybody swear you stayed in from one till…what time did you say you left home this morning?” Harrison asked. He was still standing, still looking down on her. But if he was trying to intimidate her, it wasn’t working. Dinah looked as cool as a snowy December morning.

  “Around six. Tom picked me up; he can tell you. And the guards saw me when I arrived at the building.”

  The cops exchanged glances, got up, and left without another word. But seconds later Quintero reappeared. “Just one more thing, Ms. Greene…you seem like a nice lady, so I’m surprised you aren’t sad about that poor dead woman. Don’t ya care?”

  “I’m sorry she’s dead, but I didn’t know her, never even met her,” Dinah said.

  Quintero, glowering, departed, and this time he didn’t come back. But Rob was sure he would return, and even surer about Harrison. Harrison seemed to have a hate on for Dinah, although he’d almost certainly been told to treat her politely. Why wasn’t he following orders? Something was up, and Rob would have to find out what. Unless another suspect turned up, or Dinah could prove she didn’t leave the Cornelia Street building all night, the police weren’t going to leave her alone.

  Fourteen

  Back in his office, Rob called Jonathan and reassured him about Dinah’s attitude and well-being before summarizing the news from One Police Plaza and describing the police interviews. He went on to comment on Coleman’s notes on DDD&W.

  “I believe Coleman when she says something’s wrong there, something more than the problems created by the merger. She’s not usually troubled by atmosphere, and she’s not fanciful. This is the first time she’s ever even hinted to me that anything or any place freaked her out,” Rob said.

  “I agree. She’s fearless. I can’t see her getting nervous about anything unless it’s truly terrible. I blame myself for all this. I gave Dinah the go-ahead on that wretched project. I know some of the DDD&W people, and I thought they were okay,” Jonathan said.

  “Maybe most of them are. But one of them must be a murderer, and murder is usually about love or money. Either or both could be an issue at DDD&W. Another thing: a murder investigation might uncover a lot that people want to keep hidden. Having guilty secrets can turn bad guys worse. People kill every day to protect their secrets. I think that office is dangerous.”

  “They can all kill each other far as I’m concerned. I just want Dinah out of it. Do everything you can to help her, Rob. Spend whatever it takes. Hire experts. Get every kind of test, whatever. Make a list of things you want me to do. Anything you want, you’ve got. I’ll call on everyone I know, cash in every IOU.”

  “It’s worrying to have Dinah mixed up in this, but remember: the police still have a long way to go before they have a case against her. They can’t come up with how she got in that office, and they have no idea what was used to loosen the shelves. Of course, if Dinah has an alibi, their case is toast,” Rob said.

  “I know. But I want Dinah out of this mess with her reputation undamaged—that’s going to take some doing. She could be all over the tabloids at any minute, and if
that happens, she’ll never recover. It would devastate her,” Jonathan said.

  “I’ll do my best,” Rob promised.

  Fifteen

  Rob looked at his watch. He had to make a phone call before the meeting at Cornelia Street. He hadn’t been free to tell Jonathan that he’d encountered DDD&W during his work for another client. He needed to call the district attorney’s office to find out how much information he could pass on to his friends.

  The DA was investigating sales-tax evasion by art dealers and buyers. The problem was huge: a person could buy expensive art, jewelry, furs, whatever, and arrange to have the vendor send empty boxes to an address outside New York, since items purchased for use outside the state weren’t subject to the nearly 9 percent sales tax. Meanwhile, the goods remained—tax free—in New York.

  A lot of money could be saved that way, and people—even the very rich—kept trying to get away with it. But some of them got caught. The late Leona Helmsley testified before a grand jury that she’d avoided paying $38,662 in taxes on Van Cleef & Arpels jewelry. She admitted that store employees sent empty boxes from the retailer to her Connecticut estate, while she took the jewelry to her home.

  In 2003, Samuel Waksal, founder and former CEO of ImClone, pleaded guilty to dodging $1.2 million in city and state taxes on nine paintings valued at $15 million that he purchased from a New York art dealer. He’d claimed the art was for use outside New York, when, in fact, it was delivered to Waksal’s Manhattan apartment.

  Ex-Tyco chief Dennis Kozlowski was indicted in 2002 for conspiracy to avoid paying sales tax on six paintings, including a Monet and a Renoir, by shipping empty crates to Tyco’s headquarters in New Hampshire. In 2006, Kozlowski agreed to pay $21.2 million to resolve the tax evasion case.