Page 27 of Accidental Murder
“Here’s the kicker. The twins inherited Daddy’s estate. It’s sizeable, but split two ways it’s so-so, get my drift? Follow the money.” Rodrigo stabbed the air with a finger. “Follow. The. Money.”
After Rodrigo left, Megan ordered Ashley’s and Kayla’s financial information. While she waited, she decided a good mid-afternoon workout would clear her head.
Two other women, both on treadmills, were working out at the gym when Megan, who’d changed into leggings and a loose T-shirt, slotted the bottle of water into the cup of a Stairmaster. She draped a towel over the machine’s arm and stepped on. She chose a level-three course, set the machine for a brisk twenty-minute workout, and began pumping her legs up and down. On the machine’s TV screen, a female reporter gave a business update. Without earbuds, Megan couldn’t hear it, but stockswere on the rise, CDs were at an all-time low, and a corporate bigwig had been indicted for fraud.
Financial news rarely mattered to Megan because she didn’t have an extra dime to her name. Two years ago she’d purchased a rundown condo thinking she would make a mint if she fixed it up and flipped it. The wreck had turned into a money pit. Every room in the place had begged for repair, and each repair had estimated out at a thousand-plus dollars. The joy of homeownership was a joke.
Megan set aside her peeve and considered Rodrigo’s theory:Follow the money. Was Ashley Macintyre guilty of murder? The neighbor was adamant she’d seen a suspiciousmanin the vicinity. The medical examiner determined a male’s fist had struck Kayla’s face, and Darius Ventano had bruises on his knuckles.
A new theory occurred to Megan. Did Ashley Macintyre pay Ventano to act on her behalf? She pressed hard against the resistance of the machine while trying to calculate Kayla’s income from computer consulting. On the high side, if she met with eight clients a day at, say, seventy-five dollars an hour, a six-figure income was achievable. Even on the low side, she made ninety thousand. After taxes, sixty. Add the father’s inheritance and Kayla’s dollar sign value multiplied. However, Ashley Macintyre, a well-known model, probably earned a considerable income. Megan had seen Ashley’s face in dozens of magazines. Was she a murderess? No, Megan didn’t buy it.
She switched off the Stairmaster, stepped down, took her water and towel, and made her way to a treadmill. As she climbed on, Captain Wald boarded the treadmill next to hers. His black tee shirt clung to his brawny torso. So did his bicycle-style shorts. He looked good, but she would never tell him. She didn’t want to trigger a sexual harassment lawsuit in reverse. She chose a moderate course. The machine whirred.
The captain adjusted the pace of his machine. “What’s going on with the Macintyre case?”
“Got a suspect.”
“Every loophole closed?”
“Doing our best.” Megan hated acting like a sycophant, but Dennis Wald had ascended the police department’s ladder faster than most. She could use a good review from him, and yet, as much as she would love a promotion, she valued respect more. Perspiration dripped down her forehead and the back of her neck. She blotted the moisture with her towel. “Sir, you knew Kayla Macintyre. Do you think a thief could’ve gotten the jump on her?”
“Sure. Thieves find their ways into homes through open windows or locked doors. Surprise is key.” He stabbed the control buttons and quickened his pace. “I want you to be sure about this guy. If it’s not him, cut him loose and keep searching.”
Megan stepped up the pace on her machine. She didn’t want her boss to think she couldn’t hack a stringent workout. “What if the killer turns out to be the sister?”
He threw her a hard look. “If you have a suspicion, run with it. But I’d say you’re wrong. Kayla and Ashley adored each other.” Without another word, he abandoned his workout and left the gym.
The abruptness of his exit stunned Megan. Had he come to the gym to feel her out or to steer her in a new direction?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kayla whoopedwhen she found an empty parking space on the street near Worldwide Financing. She eased the car into it, fed two quarters into the meter, and hiked up the incline to the building.
Sara Simmons’s husband had set the appointment for four o’clock, but Kayla had arrived early. How could she not? Curiosity was a powerful stimulant. Why had he assumed she’d called about payment? Why meet at his office? Where in the hell was Sara?
Three years ago, Kayla met Sara while standing in a buffet line at a Stanford University businesswomen’s meet and greet. She read Sara’s name tag, with career attribute below it, and said, “What’s a bioethicist?”
“Professional suicide, according to my husband.” Sara was quick to smile. “Taylor says no sane woman would have the nerve to snoop where I do, but you know those buttoned-down types. Any gamble is too risky.” Putting her hand up to share a secret, she added, “My husband is a finance wiz. Enough said?” She laughed. “To answer your question, bioethicists are a new breed. We’re warriors. We investigate cutting-edge scientific projects, like stem cell research or test tube fetus births, as wellas things involving renegade companies that refuse to follow society’s rules.”
At the time the whole concept of scientists playing watchdog on other scientists had sounded risky to Kayla. Now, aware of how many horrific projects Sara had helped shut down, she was proud to know her.
Kayla entered Worldwide Finance and shivered. The temperature in the foyer was freezing. Turning on air conditioning in the middle of December was ridiculous. A multitude of people, many attired in dark suits matching the gray tiled floors and granite walls, milled in the area. Kayla assessed the Dolci suit she’d selected. On any other day, she would not fit in. In Ashley’s clothes she did.
She boarded the elevator and, like the other passengers, didn’t make eye contact. At the seventeenth floor, the door opened and she jostled her way out. She roamed the halls until she located suite 102. After entering, she introduced herself to a pale, cheerless assistant. The young woman instructed Kayla to take a seat.
Three minutes passed before the woman ushered Kayla into Taylor Simmons’s office. “Sir, your four o’clock is here. Ashley Macintyre.”
Simmons was standing at a window that provided a view of the bay, his back to her. He was stroking the nape of his neck. After a moment, he pivoted. At first glance, he reminded her of an edgy Irish actor, handsome with dark hair and startling green eyes. There was no sparkle in those eyes, though. No impishness. They brimmed with tears. His mouth was set. He tugged at the hem of his fitted jacket and adjusted the knot of his indigo silk tie. “Miss Macintyre.” He didn’t offer to shake hands. He didn’t suggest she take a seat, either. Instead, he stoically sat down in the high-backed chair at his desk, withdrew a check from a corporate-looking folio, and wrote her name on the payee lineand an amount. “I believe Sara owed your sister Kayla four hours compensation.”
On his pristine desk sat two photo frames, one facing Kayla and one facing Simmons. The one Kayla could see was of a beautiful blond girl. Cici, she imagined, Sara’s pride and joy. Beside the frames were tidy piles of spreadsheets, an open leather cigar case holding two Davidoffs, and a bottle of Pellegrino sparkling water. There were no scratches or watermarks anywhere on the desktop.
Simmons ripped the check from the folio and handed it to Kayla. “Our business is done.”
“Sir . . .” Kayla hesitated. “My sister said she and Sara had been playing phone tag. I was wondering if I could speak to her.”
“Lord in heaven, my apologies. How could you know? I asked the police to keep it out of the papers. Sara . . .” He swallowed hard. “Sara died. Monday night.”
“She died?”
