Peter Spiegelman - Red Cat

Fenn’s mouth was an angry line, and I could almost see the steam rising from his dark curls as he stared at me. He shook his head. “Tommy wasn’t bullshitting you; it’s been years since I had any contact with her, and I had nothing to do with what happened.”

“Why did you send him looking for her, then?”

He ran a hand across the back of his neck and let out a long breath. “I got a letter a while ago- about three months back- pictures of me and her, from when we were together. A few days later a note came, from somebody squeezing me, or trying to.”

“Somebody who?”

Fenn snorted. “Do blackmailers usually sign their letters?”

“You assumed it was Wren?”

“From the photos and the bullshit threats, that’s what I thought, but I never knew who the fuck Wren was. That’s why I called Tommy.”

“What were the threats?”

“The same crap as two years ago,” Fenn said. “Sending pictures to the boss, the wife, the in-laws- all that shit.” Fenn paused and surprised me with a satisfied smile. “She didn’t know that it was all old news, though. That ship sailed a long time ago.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means in the last couple years I’ve become pretty much squeeze-proof.”

“Squeeze-proof how?”

Fenn laughed. “Two years ago, I was still married, I was working for somebody else, and I was just putting together the money for this.” He gestured around him. “Now I’m single, I’m in charge around here, and I bought out the last of my investors six months back. So if somebody wants to put pictures of me fucking a beautiful girl on the Internet, they can go right ahead. The way we went at it, it’d probably get me more dates.”

“Why not ignore the letter, then? Why send Vickers to look for her?”

“That’s just what Tommy said- leave it alone- but I said no way. Immune to it or not, I fucking hate the idea of someone trying to shake me down. I hate being harassed; I hate people messing with my privacy. And the fact that there’s somebody out there who thinks they can get away with it- who thinks I’m a soft touch- that’s a fucking insult.”

“So what was Vickers supposed to do once he found her?”

“Send her a fucking message, that’s what. Let her know that I know who she is, and that she’s going to get herself in trouble- serious legal trouble- if she keeps screwing around with me.” I shook my head. The words were familiar, and so was the reasoning.

“What happened then?” I asked.

“Just what Tommy told you. He tracked her down, they had their talk, and that was it, the one and only time he spoke to her.”

“How did she take it?”

“The bit- the girl? Tommy said she was fucking surprised.”

“Surprised that he’d tracked her down?”

Fenn shook his head. “Surprised by the whole thing. According to him, she didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Didn’t know about the pictures or the letter, didn’t know anything about a squeeze. According to Tommy, it was all a big shock.”

“He believed her?”

Fenn shrugged. “I told him this chick could sell ice to Eskimos, but still he bought it.”

“But not you?”

“I knew her. I also know that after their talk we never heard another word about pictures or threats or sending cash. To me, that says she took the hint.”

“To the cops, it might say you killed her.”

Fenn slapped his hand on the desk. His voice was tight and loud. “Don’t you listen? I had no reason to kill her. Those pictures were no threat to me, they were just an annoyance. She was just an annoyance. Shit, if I was planning something like that, do you think I would’ve sent Tommy out looking for her that way? It wasn’t exactly a secret what he was doing.”

“Maybe things were different once you found her. Something she said, maybe, or something she did…”

“What- some kind of a crime of passion? I told you, I never even saw her. And I was out of the country when she died.” I shook my head. “You don’t believe it,” Fenn said, “here- look.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a manila envelope and slid it across the desk.

I looked inside. There were fifteen pages, all copies- airline tickets and hotel receipts mostly. Rio, SДѓo Paulo, Buenos Aires, Punta del Este, then back to Rio- three weeks, just as Vickers had said. I tossed it back to him.

“These don’t mean anything. You could’ve hired it out.”

Fenn shook his head, and the grin began to reappear. “You just can’t make up your mind, can you? ‘Hired it out’ or ‘crime of passion’- which is it? Hiring somebody means planning, and if I was planning it, I wouldn’t have had Tommy out beating the bushes so loud. And flipping out means I had to be there- which you can see I wasn’t. On top of which, I had no fucking reason to do anything to this girl besides sue the hell out of her.

“For chrissakes, March, for a guy who’s supposed to be smart, you got your head squarely up your ass.”

Cold and fatigue sat like a yoke on my shoulders, and I leaned heavily in the elevator as it rose. It was only seven o’clock, but it felt like years since I’d left my apartment to meet Paul Darrow. I opened my door to the smell of thyme and warm bread, and to Clare at the kitchen counter, leafing through a shiny magazine. I hung my coat and poured a cranberry juice and looked in the pot that was heating on the stove. A thick stew simmered inside.

“You cooked?” I asked.

Clare smiled. “If by cooking you mean buying it, putting it in the pot, and turning on the heat- then, yes. It’s an old family recipe I picked up at the hem of Mother’s cocktail dress.” I smiled back at her, but it turned into a yawn midway.

“This’ll keep,” she said. “Why don’t you rest for a while?” Which sounded like a fine idea- a deeply brilliant idea- except that Mitchell Fenn’s wide smile lit the darkness whenever I closed my eyes, and I knew that I should call Mike Metz. As it happened, I wasn’t fifteen minutes tossing on the sofa when he called me. I carried the phone into the bedroom.

I told Mike how it went with Fenn and there was silence when I was done, and then a moment’s irritation.

“I thought you were just going to follow him,” Mike said.

“An opportunity presented itself,” I said, “and, anyway, no blood was spilled.”

“That’s comforting. Do you buy his story?”

I’d had a slow cab ride home to think about it. “Grudgingly,” I said.

“So do I. And it presents an interesting scenario- of someone using Holly’s videos for blackmail, and of Holly finding out. Those are circumstances for violence, and it’s a story the police will take seriously.”

“It suggests someone close to her- close enough to have access to her unedited work, anyway.”

“Someone like a boyfriend, for instance.”

“That’s one possibility.”

“With Coyle’s record, it’s the possibility the cops will focus on. And speaking of which, it’s time to call them- past time, really. Have you talked to David about Stephanie?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Jesus,” Mike sighed. “You have to do it, John. We need to know-”

“I know, I know- I’ll call him tonight.”

And I did, right after I got off the phone with Mike. I had no idea of what to say to him, and I was relieved when his recorded voice came on. I thought about just hanging up, but ultimately I left a message. Call me.

I came out of the bedroom as Clare was setting a bowl of stew and a loaf of peasant bread on the table. She carried her own bowl over and sat.

“You didn’t seem to be doing much resting,” she said. I shook my head and tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in the stew. “I won’t ask about your day at the office,” she said. “’Cause then you’d have to kill me, and you’re too tired now.”