Dead Lies (20 page)

CHAPTER 21

M
ELINDA MADISON STEPPED OUT OF THE CAR AND LOOKED UP AT THE
large building in front of her, wondering yet again whether she’d made the right decision in coming. Nervously she scanned the parking lot, searching for any indication Ivan or another member of McGrower’s security team had followed her. But there were no telltale signs of surveillance. How absurd, she thought, as if she knew anything about surveilling or being surveilled. For God’s sake, she was an executive assistant, not some kind of spy.

But that’s what she felt like. Two hours ago she’d left work, telling the other secretaries she had to leave early to go to a doctor’s appointment. Instead she had walked over to the Hertz car rental office on 49
th
Street, where she’d rented a small economy. According to Yahoo maps, the drive to Avondale was supposed to take 40 minutes, but because it was rush hour it had ended up being twice as long.

Now she was here, and she was about to reveal her boss’s secrets.

Avondale’s Town Hall building was large and gracious. With its oversized windows and columned front porch, it looked a lot like the Greek revival mansion she’d grown up in. Melinda sighed. Her once-mighty old Virginia family had fallen far since her father had made his first deal with Gordon McGrower three years ago, lured by the promise of millions to replenish the bankrupt Madison family coffers. The business arrangement had worked well for her father for a time. He’d made piles of money, which had allowed her mother to keep up her country club lifestyle. But one day last year her father had found he’d extended himself too far, borrowing against other projects he’d been working on simultaneously, and Gordon McGrower had bailed him out. That’s how Melinda—a twenty-three year old Yale graduate who was directly descended from the fifth President of the United States—had come to work for a man she’d come to distrust, even fear. She was payback, part of a deal her father had made to “work” off the money he owed McGrower.

At first she’d viewed her employment there as a temporary tour of duty in a foreign country, a place where all the whiskey was 30-year-old single malt and the surfaces mahogany. She’d enjoyed taking calls from men with names like Trump and Milstein, as well as the cadre of celebrities and politicians who schmoozed with her dynamic boss. She felt proud that every time he showed up at their offices, the mayor of New York actually remembered her name. Warmed by the knowledge she was making important connections that would later propel her journalism career, she’d even succumbed to McGrower’s persistent sexual advances, enjoying a few brief dalliances with the man in his elegant leather and teak office on the forty-fourth floor. For a man who so obviously relished making multi-million-dollar deals that often angered union leaders and put contractors out of business, he was a surprisingly gentle lover.

Until a few days ago, Melinda would have simply described her boss’s business practices as questionable and chalked that up to the way real estate was done in New York. But after the death of the woman who’d come to McGrower’s office a few weeks ago, Melinda realized her boss wasn’t just unethical. He was dangerous.

No, she didn’t regret coming here today—not at all. She
had
to do this. If, as she suspected, it turned out her boss was responsible for the Vance woman’s death, he would go to jail and be out of her family’s life for good. And she would no longer feel like an indentured servant. She stood up straighter, warmed by the idea that better times were ahead. She might soon be sitting in the press room at City Hall, wearing her credentials around her neck and firing questions at the mayor, who would call on her by name.

Following the signs reading “Avondale Police Department,” Melinda walked around to the back of the building and came to a set of glass double doors. The station took up the entire lower level of Town Hall. She pushed open the door and approached the reception desk. A smooth-shaven officer was sitting behind it drinking out of a paper cup. His name tag read “Ripley.”

“May I talk to the person investigating the death of Serena Vance?” she asked when the man looked up. She was surprised her voice was as steady as it was. Her heart was racing.

The officer didn’t blink. “Your name?”

“Melinda Madison.”

“I.D. please?”

She pulled her driver’s license from her purse and delivered it with a shaky hand.

The officer glanced at the license but didn’t give it back. “Wait here,” he said, disappearing into the room behind him.

He returned with a female police officer in tow. The woman had curly, shoulder-length brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was as pretty as any of the glamorous young women McGrower hired to work in his office—thin and fit with pale olive skin and a faintly exotic flair.

“I’m Officer Valentine,” the woman said pleasantly, handing over Melinda’s I.D. “Please come with me.”

She led Melinda through a large room filled with desks and into a small conference room containing a table surrounded by four chairs. The room was windowless and institutional-looking, nothing like the lushly-appointed offices Melinda was used to. The officer motioned her to take a seat anywhere at the table, and Melinda chose the one closest to the door, as if giving herself permission to flee at any moment. A notepad and pen lay neatly at the center of the table, and the officer pulled them toward her as she sat down in the chair next to Melinda’s.

Officer Valentine leaned back into her seat. “You have some information for us?” she said politely.

Melinda nervously picked invisible strands of lint off her gray wool skirt. “I work for a man named Gordon McGrower,” she said. “Do you know who he is?”

The officer’s expression didn’t change. “The real estate developer?”

Melinda nodded. “Yes.” She took a deep breath and blurted it out. “A few weeks ago, the woman who was murdered came to Mr. McGrower’s office on Fifth Avenue.”

The officer’s eyes widened slightly and she leaned forward. “Go on,” she said, clicking her pen and setting her wrist on the pad.

“I had no idea who she was at the time, but the visit stuck out because the woman didn’t have an appointment. And Mr. McGrower doesn’t meet with anyone he doesn’t know.” She realized she was speaking too quickly and forced herself to slow down. “The woman… uh, Ms. Vance… said she’d tried several times to phone for a meeting but was turned away. Ms. Vance said she really needed to speak with Mr. McGrower and wouldn’t go away until she did. She was extremely polite yet very persistent. Something about her told me she was legit.” Melinda laughed nervously. “I mean, she wasn’t a crazy stalker with an imaginary ax to grind.” She looked at the officer. “We get some of those, you know?”

The woman nodded patiently.

“Well, um, Ms. Vance wouldn’t tell me why she was there. She said she could only talk to Mr. McGrower about it. When I didn’t budge, she insisted I pass him a message. She said, ‘Tell him I’m here about a donation I made to St. Nicholas’s six years ago.’”

The officer scribbled in her notebook then looked up and read what she’d written. “That’s exactly what she said?”

“Yes,” replied Melinda, and added, “Something about it felt very
personal
to me.”

The officer was looking at her intently. “What do you think the message meant?”

“I have no idea. I’m just repeating what I heard.” Melinda paused. “Look, the message confused me, and I was still skeptical about passing the message to Mr. McGrower. I tried to press her for more but the woman was adamant. She said Mr McGrower would want to hear this and only he’d understand.”

“What was his reaction when you told him?”

“He was confused for a second, but then it was like a light went on in his head. He actually looked…
scared.
Not something I’ve ever seen before.”

The officer looked pensive. “You’re sure he didn’t know Ms. Vance?”

“I’m sure. When he came out to the lobby to greet her, he shook her hand and said, ‘Nice to meet you.’ Nothing in their body language suggested they knew each other.”

The officer nodded. “So then what happened?”

“They went into Mr. McGrower’s office, and he shut the door.”

“You didn’t hear their conversation?” By this, Melinda knew she meant
over
hear.

“No.” Unfortunately her boss’s office was a vault.

The officer nodded again. “How long did the two of them talk?”

“Not long,” said Melinda. “Maybe ten, fifteen minutes.”

“How did the meeting end?”

Again, Melinda mentally replayed the scene. “They were tense but civil when they came out of his office. Still, I know my boss pretty well, and I could tell that he was upset. Mr. McGrower showed her to the elevator himself, which isn’t something he normally does for people. He has one of his secretaries do it.” Melinda realized she was getting off-track and reigned herself in. “They shook hands at the elevator, and he told her he’d be in touch.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think your boss walked Ms. Vance out himself?”

Melinda didn’t have to think about the answer. “He didn’t want anyone else talking to her,” she said. “It must have been obvious to him that we were all curious about what was going on.”

“What people you are referring to?”

“Mr. McGrower’s other secretaries, Frances Donovan and Inez Porter. And Eileen Schiff. She’s the receptionist on our floor. The four of us work pretty closely together.” She watched the officer write the names down, asking for clarifications on spelling.

“Do you remember the date of Ms. Vance’s visit?” the officer said when she was done.

“Yes, December 9
th
.” Melinda was glad she’d remembered to look it up before she came.

The officer wrote it down. “Did Ms. Vance ever come back? Or call again?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

The officer paused, her mental wheels clearly spinning. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” she asked finally.

Melinda took a deep breath. She told the officer about the limo ride, when McGrower had seen the newspaper article announcing Serena Vance’s murder and gotten visibly upset. She told her about her boss’s terse call to his security chief and their after-hours meeting, as well as the cash “bonus” Melinda had received immediately after it. Her mouth was dry when she was finished, and she felt a whopper of a headache coming on. “I got the feeling he was buying my silence,” she concluded.

The officer’s eyes were bright. “What’s the security chief’s name?”

“Ivan Vasiliev.” Melinda spelled it out.

“Is he Russian?”

“Yes.”

“With an accent?”

“Yes.”

“Describe him, please.”

Melinda shivered involuntarily. “He’s missing his left ear.” This was the most distinctive thing about the man. “And he has pock-marked skin that’s tight across his face.” She didn’t add that he was creepy.

“What about height?”

“Well, he’s not very tall…”

“Can you be more specific?”

“He’s maybe 5’ 7”, ” said Melinda.

The officer stood up and motioned for Melinda to do the same. “I’m 5’ 7”. Is he my height?”

Melinda nodded. “Yes, that’s about right.” They sat down again, and she continued. “I think he’s around 45 years old. He’s small but really powerful. He’s got enormous muscles. He looks like a body builder. He has a buzz cut like a marine’s. He looks kind of like…”—here she gave a nervous laugh—“Popeye.” She paused, remembering something McGrower’s secretary once told her. “Frances Donovan told me Ivan used to be a gymnast back in Russia. But that was a long time ago I think.”

The officer was nodding, clearly excited by this information.

“This may sound like a strange question,” the woman said after a few seconds, “but do you know if Ivan drinks coffee?”

Coffee? “Yes,” she said. “Everyone in our office does. We make a fresh pot at least three times a day. Mr. McGrower insists on it. We keep pretty late hours. I’ve definitely seen Ivan help himself.”

The officer was nodding again.

“Is this helpful to you?” Melinda asked. From the satisfied expression on the woman’s face, she was sure the answer would be yes but she asked anyway.

The woman fixed her attention on Melinda again. “Very. Melinda, is there anything else?”

Melinda shook her head. She was as tired as if she’d just driven hours through a snowstorm. She was ready to get out of here. “No.”

“Then I just need you to give me your contact information.”

Melinda recited her home and cell phone numbers, feeling an overwhelming relief that the interview was over.

“Thank you for coming forward,” the officer said. “I know this couldn’t have been easy. We’ll be in touch.”

Hearing the words “coming forward,” Melinda felt a pang of fear. “What are you going to do now? Do you have to talk to him? If you do, he’ll know that I’m the one who talked to the police…”

The officer gave her a reassuring look. “He won’t know anything. When we talk to him we’ll tell him a friend of Ms. Vance’s told us about the visit or that we’re following up on some phone calls the victim made. You said she called the office, remember? There’ll be a record of those phone calls.” She closed her notebook. “Don’t worry. We do this sort of thing all the time.”