Fic: Pickled Red Herring (3/??)
Title: Pickled Red Herring (Part III of ??)
Author: lareinenoire
Play: Richard III
Characters / Pairings: Stanley, Hastings, Elizabeth, Richard, and the corpse that was formerly George
Rating: M
Warnings: Violence, profanity, references to drug use, references to prostitution descriptions of murder scenes, shady economics, infidelity, bad life choices, Epic Legal Fail, POV Minor Character, genderswap, unfortunate nicknames, bad jokes, dodgy references to people's sex lives
Wordcount: 3443 (Part III only)
Summary: It wasn't every day you found a corpse pickling in a wine barrel.
NB: So...I let this one lapse for a very long time. I kept wanting to write more but had no idea how to fit the plot pieces together. Finally, it seems, I've managed it. To those of you still reading, you are wonderful and thank you. And so many thanks to my beta-readers, angevin2 and rosamund.
Part I
Part II
Entire story on AO3
The story, from what Meg could gather, was this. Ted and Bobby York had been picked up from their respective schools the previous afternoon, and had arrived in their uncle's house in Cambridge where they were to spend the night before leaving for New York. At some point during the night, the police had barged in--the details of the case remained undisclosed, much to Meg and Hastings' frustration--snatched up the boys, and handed them over to their other uncle, Richard.
Mrs. Woodville had taken her shellshocked daughter by the arm and all but manhandled her into a limo. With a dead look at Meg, Edward York's widow had said, "If you need me, you can reach me on my cellphone. But he's not getting Ellie. Not in a thousand years."
As she followed her daughter, Meg heard her begin barking orders to the chauffeur. She opened her mouth but Hastings laid one hand on her arm. "No, Meg. So long as Richard has her boys, she won't go far."
Behind them, Meg heard the sound of a throat clearing. Framed in the doorway now was the ramrod-straight figure of Cecilia York, matriarch of the family and herself a shareholder in Broome Investments. She also had the dubious distinction of being one of the few people in Manhattan who could still frighten Bill Hastings and, by extension, Meg. "Do you plan to stand out here all day, Chief Hastings?" she asked in a voice chillier than the Hudson in February. "I seem to remember there was a funeral planned."
There hadn't been a funeral for George--not a proper one, at any rate. With his elder brother in the hospital, the only people who had been there were his mother and Robert Brakenbury, George's on-again-off-again AA sponsor.
"But what about--"
"Never you mind, Detective Stanley. This is enough of a fiasco already." She closed her eyes briefly, an uncharacteristic hesitation. "This day is for Edward. Anything else can wait until tomorrow."
It didn't occur to anybody to question that. Even when her only remaining son arrived some twenty minutes later, nobody said anything about the events of the previous night, although Meg could see Ted, looking painfully young in a blazer and Phillips tie, constantly glancing back toward the door as if looking for someone.
The funeral was surprisingly short and to the point. Hastings ended up speaking impromptu since Professor Woodville was absent, and everyone did their best not to look at the empty spots in the pew between Cecilia York and her two silent grandsons.
The eulogy concluded simply. "It was an honor and a privilege to call Edward my best friend. More than that, he was my brother. We--" He stopped, too choked to finish, and stepped down from the podium.
Meg had teared up more than once during the speech and even though the jokes were ones she'd heard a dozen times before, she found herself chuckling nonetheless. When Hastings returned to his spot beside her, she squeezed his hand. "He'd be proud of you, Bill."
He sniffed. "Thanks, Meggie. I'm just glad it's over."
She fell into step beside Ted York as they left the cathedral after the service. He looked very like his mother, she realized when he looked at her. "You're Detective Stanley, I think. Dad told me who you were once, but I'm sorry if I'm wrong."
"You're right," she smiled. "Were you looking for someone in there?"
"My uncle--Uncle Anthony, that is." He swallowed. "I don't know where he went. The police came and nobody tells me anything."
"I..." Meg trailed off, at a loss. "I'm afraid I don't know the details, Ted, but I'll tell you once I hear anything."
"Promise?" There was an odd note of desperation in the boy's voice. "Please promise. I don't want anything bad to happen to him. He didn't do anything wrong!"
"I know he didn't, and I'm sure the police in Boston will know it too, soon enough." As she said it, Meg hoped inwardly that she wasn't lying to the kid. Whoever planned this had covered his tracks incredibly well and she had the horrible suspicion that Anthony Woodville wouldn't be getting out of custody anytime soon. "How are you holding up?"
Ted shrugged. "Bobby doesn't get it. It's like he forgot when Dad was in the hospital last year. But Mom told me that this might happen. She said Dad didn't take care of himself properly." He blinked up at her. "Where is she?"
"I don't know, Ted--"
"Gone off to the Hamptons, would be my guess." Meg found herself facing Harriet Buckingham, Broome's top corporate counsel. Her purse was clearly doubling as a briefcase, even at a funeral, and the black suit she wore had subtle pinstripes, suggesting she was making a stop on her way to the office. "You didn't see the pre-nup. If it hadn't been for me, this young man wouldn't have a cent."
"She seemed very worried," Meg said warily. "I don't think she trusts her brother-in-law."
Harriet gave a dismissive wave. "She'll get over it. Or not. Either way, she's irrelevant. You," she said, looking down at Ted, "are the way of the future."
"I'd rather see my mom, if you don't mind," Ted said. "Can you call her?"
"Would you call her, Ms. Buckingham?" she corrected him with a disapproving shake of her head. "Kids these days have no manners, do they?"
"I'll call her, Ted," Meg interjected, catching the other woman's eye. "The car's waiting for you now." She could still see his pale face in the window of the limo as it pulled away from the church and it occurred to her with a shiver that he looked like a ghost. Harriet muttered something about the office and stepped into a nearby Town Car with Broome corporate plates.
"Something walk over your grave, Detective?"
Meg spun on her heel to find Richard York making his way toward her, leaning heavily on his trademark cane. The rumor was it had one of those knives hidden inside it, but nobody had thought to ask. She shrugged, pushing the idle question aside. "Not so much my grave, Mr. York. Though I have to wonder why your sister-in-law is so frightened of you."
"You and me both, Detective. We've never been on the best of terms, I'll grant, but..." he gave a half-shrug. "Who knows?"
"And what about Professor Woodville?" Meg crossed her arms and studied him warily. "You sure seemed to be in the right place at the right time to grab your nephews when that went down."
"What can I say? Police contacts have their uses." He shook his head. "Awful about poor Anthony, though. I have to say, I wouldn't have thought it of him. But it just goes to show, you think you know a person."
She briefly entertained the thought that he might be sincere. But you didn't become the youngest attorney in line for partner at Neville & Warwick--or any law firm for that matter--by being sincere. Before she could question Richard further, however, he excused himself to greet a young woman who had just arrived, wearing a veiled hat just this side of tasteful enough for a funeral. Meg supposed you needed something eccentric if you were out with Richard York and wanted to make an impression on anybody.
"I'm sorry, darling, the 1 was horrendously slow. I didn't miss everything, did I?"
Meg recognized her as soon as she pulled off her sunglasses. Anne Warwick's taste in boyfriends was as doubtful as her editorials in the Atlantic were sacrosanct, and she had a mordant disregard for police officers and paparazzi alike. Of course, it was hard to blame her. Anyone who had come as close as she did to having Margot Lancaster as a mother-in-law deserved a medal for getting out alive, let alone making such a smooth transition to the winning side of this past decade's bloodiest corporate merger--in more ways than one. Nobody had ever figured out what caused Eddie Lancaster's little Cessna to plunge into the Atlantic, but his death had ensured Broome's undisputed place at the top of the NYSE's docket, and Anne had made tabloid history by appearing at his memorial service on the arm of Richard York.
"You missed the service, I'm afraid, but we're on our way to the burial now. You know Anne, don't you, Detective?" Richard said, holding out his hand to catch his girlfriend's arm. "Anne Warwick, this is police detective Margaret Stanley."
Anne held out one hand with a cool smile, and Meg immediately noticed the ring. "Detective Stanley. It's a pleasure to meet you. I just wish it were under better circumstances."
"Likewise, Ms. Warwick. And if I may offer my congratulations." Turning to Richard, she smiled. "To you too, Mr. York. I wasn't aware that you were engaged."
"Owing to the circumstances, we decided to keep things quiet." So it had been recent. Meg couldn't help but wonder how recent. Not for the first time, she recalled the rumor so quickly silenced that Eddie Lancaster's death might not have been an accident. But now wasn't the time. Straightening the uncomfortable suit that only came out of her closet for funerals, Meg joined Hastings and Catesby in the cruiser so they could drive to the cemetery.
***
Edward York's will was being read in the executive conference room at Broome Investments, on the seventy-fifth floor of one of the newest high-rises in Midtown. Meg, of course, wasn't invited, so she found a spot on a bench in Bryant Park and called Henry, expecting to have to leave a message. Rather to her surprise, he picked up.
"Mom! I thought you had to go to Edward York's funeral today." She could hear a roaring noise behind him. "Sorry about that. The wind's crazy down here today."
"No problem, sweetie. The funeral's over. I just wanted to hear your voice." Meg wasn't given to sentiment and the words surprised her. "That's all."
"Mom, really." She could hear the eyeroll in his voice. "This isn't like you. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Henry. You're right. I'm being silly."
"Mom. Snap out of it and tell me what's up. You're weirding me out." After a second, he added, "I'm training for the FBI, Mom. You don't need to hide things from me."
"I do if it's an ongoing case, young man. You should know that." Meg laughed in spite of herself. "It's just getting to me. This case. I don't like it. Something about it smells wrong, y'know?"
"But I thought York died of a heart attack. That's what all the news channels are saying." She heard the sound of a door closing and his voice became clearer. "Are they covering it up?"
"I'm not saying anything like that, Henry, and you're not allowed to repeat a word of this, do you understand?" Without waiting for an answer, Meg continued, "Yes, Edward died of a heart attack. I was an eyewitness. It's just..."
"Too convenient?"
Meg sighed. "I know. You think I'm crazy?"
"You're never crazy when it comes to work, Mom."
"I heard the caveat in that, young man. Are you sure you're going into the police and not the law?" Inevitably, that made her think of Richard York again and she had to suppress a shudder. "Anyway, I'll let you go. I'm probably interrupting something very important."
"Just my lunch break. Love you, Mom."
She said her farewells and hung up. The breeze had picked up by the time she reached Park Avenue and she was holding her suit jacket in a less than dignified manner when she stepped into the glass-and-wrought-iron lobby. Flashing her ID at the security guard, she was pointed to a specific elevator that would take her all the way to the penthouse floor, where Broome's corporate headquarters were housed. The elevator ride was eerily smooth and so fast that Meg's ears had popped by the time the recorded voice announced that she had arrived at her destination.
She heard the crash and the scream within seconds of the elevator doors opening. Meg snatched her gun out of her holster as she dashed forward and threw open the pair of double doors behind the startled receptionist's desk. The first thing she saw was Catesby, out cold on the floor. Then, the prone figure of Richard York, bent near double over one of the expensive leather office chairs. And, behind him, one of the plate-glass windows, shattered.
Meg had never realized just how loud the wind could be on the seventy-fifth floor.
"Hastings." She could barely make out the sound of her own voice, and found herself shouting, "Hastings, goddammit! Where the hell is Chief Hastings?"
Richard York held out one hand silently in the direction of the window. Swallowing the upsurge of bile in her throat, Meg crossed the room and peered out. Somewhere, at the far end of the vertiginous drop to Park Avenue, she could see a growing crowd of people clustered around the smashed pulp that had once been Police Chief Bill Hastings.
"Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ." Meg resisted the urge to curb her own profanity and swung round to face the one witness she had. "You tell me what happened. You tell me right now, or I am cuffing you this goddamn instant and you'll sing like a fucking songbird at headquarters."
"Detective Stanley, please." How could he look so damned calm? Fucking lawyers. "There's a security camera near the window. It'll tell you everything you need to know."
There was a sort of grim satisfaction to cuffing him all the same. He didn't protest, even when the paparazzi swarmed round the patrol car as they shoved him into the back. He had something up his sleeve. Meg could smell it. But she had infinitely more important things to worry about. Like, for instance, her dead boss.
Catesby had come to by the time Meg arrived at the station and he was seated outside the holding cell, a bandage around his head and an icepack in one hand.
"What the hell happened in there?" Meg hissed. "Tell me someone saw something!"
"It all seemed fine when we got there. It was just me, the chief, York, Buckingham, and the old family lawyer Morton, who was supposed to be reading out the will. But we never even got there. York had to take a phone call as soon as the chief and I showed up and when he came back in..." He stared down at the melting icepack. "Christ, Stanley, I can't even begin to explain it."
"Try, Catesby." Grasping his hands, she stared into his eyes. "Our boss just fell from the seventy-fifth floor of a Midtown high-rise and it is our duty, our first duty, to find out how and why that happened. You got me?"
"It all happened so fast. York was talking about how Mrs. Woodville had connections to drug dealers and mentioned some floozy named Jane and suddenly Hastings goes at him like a fucking bulldozer and York's elbow knocks me out cold." He recited the words mechanically, as though repeating a story he'd already told several times, and it occurred to Meg that he must have been cross-examined all the way from the crime scene.
"Christ, Catesby, I'm sorry. I just got so wrapped up, I..." She stopped, took a breath, and let go of his hands. "How are you holding up?"
He gave an approximation of an ambivalent shrug and winced, before raising the icepack to his head. "I'm acting chief of this precinct now, Stanley, and I can't even begin to..." he swallowed. "I need your support. Do I have it?"
"Of course you do, Cate--sir," she corrected herself, suddenly aware as never before of the difference between them in rank. He had always been so unassuming, always Hastings' quiet and obedient shadow. Meg rose to her feet and straightened her jacket. "What would you like me to do, sir?"
"Have you had any more leads on George York?"
Meg had to think for a moment before she remembered him. Poor George. Forgotten in death as he had been in life. "Well...I have a lot of theories, but not so much in the way of leads. Everything's been sort of thrown aside. I guess I should talk to Forensics and see if they found any traceable drugs."
"That sounds like a good start." Catesby closed his eyes and Meg suspected he was probably steadying himself somehow. "Leave Chief Hastings to me, Meg. There's...I'm afraid there's more to all of this than meets the eye."
"You're telling me!" Meg wasn't certain whether to feel relieved that he shared her fears or terrified that they were being confirmed. "Poor Bill. It's just too awful."
Catesby looked at the ground. "I'm afraid it's only going to get worse, Meg. The chief...let's just say he showed you a very different side of who he was."
Meg stared at him in growing horror. "I don't understand."
"Do you know exactly what Hastings and Edward York got up to? The things Hastings covered up?" Catesby was shaking his head slowly. "I know. I helped him, every step of the way, and I followed his orders and I kept it all quiet. It's not pretty, Meg."
"You're not going to posthumously charge him?" she whispered. "Catesby, no. You were his friend. You know his kids, for God's sake." Hastings and his wife had divorced soon after his return from the Middle East and Meg had only met her once or twice, but they all knew the chief's two daughters, who had visited him every other weekend like clockwork until they went away to college.
"I'm going to do what I can to avoid that, Meg, but we have to say something. This is why I need you to find out who killed George York. That's what all of this is about. Richard York is absolutely convinced that his sister-in-law was behind it and that Hastings was protecting her."
"But that's ridiculous. She and Hastings hated each other. I may not know all of the chief's dirty secrets, but I know enough to understand why. Catesby," Meg waited until he looked up at her again, "if Hastings was helping Edward's wife, don't you think we should ask her?"
"We will," Catesby said, "once we've brought her here under arrest." Into Meg's appalled silence, he added weakly, "So, you see. It's doubly important that you get moving with Forensics."
When Meg left the station, she made a beeline for her car and began driving east. As she crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, Mrs. Woodville finally picked up her phone. "Detective Stanley. I hope you're planning to explain what the hell is going on."
She sounded like a woman hanging by a thread. They would make a fantastic pair. "I'm afraid there isn't time, Mrs. Woodville. They're about to put out a warrant for your arrest in connection with George York's murder. Now, please, listen to me. Don't panic. You can't panic." She could hear the other woman's breathing, harsh and quick. "I've just heard from Forensics and they've traced one of the drugs in George's system to a dealer in New Jersey. A dealer who sold once or twice to people in...circles you formerly frequented. Of course," Meg added, "his boss was recently acquitted thanks to the legal pyrotechnics of your other brother-in-law, but I don't doubt Tricky Dick will see to it that the connection stays under wraps."
There was a moment or two of silence. Then, in a voice like dragging chains, Elizabeth Woodville said, "And he has my boys."
Meg had forgotten that. A yawning pit seemed to open in her stomach. "He can't do anything to them, Mrs. Woodville. Please remember that. There are eyes on them all the time. Security details, paparazzi even. God, I never thought I'd be thankful for them." She laughed uneasily. "We'll get your boys away from him. For now, you need to get yourself a lawyer and set aside some money for bail. I'm on my way to Southampton now. I'll take Ellie with me back to the city and make sure she's got a place to stay."
Silence again. Meg suddenly realized that Elizabeth was crying. She remembered what the widow had said to her just earlier that afternoon, what seemed like ages and ages ago. I'm never going to see my boys again.
Three people were already dead. Meg had the horrible feeling that she was right.
Author: lareinenoire
Play: Richard III
Characters / Pairings: Stanley, Hastings, Elizabeth, Richard, and the corpse that was formerly George
Rating: M
Warnings: Violence, profanity, references to drug use, references to prostitution descriptions of murder scenes, shady economics, infidelity, bad life choices, Epic Legal Fail, POV Minor Character, genderswap, unfortunate nicknames, bad jokes, dodgy references to people's sex lives
Wordcount: 3443 (Part III only)
Summary: It wasn't every day you found a corpse pickling in a wine barrel.
NB: So...I let this one lapse for a very long time. I kept wanting to write more but had no idea how to fit the plot pieces together. Finally, it seems, I've managed it. To those of you still reading, you are wonderful and thank you. And so many thanks to my beta-readers, angevin2 and rosamund.
Part I
Part II
Entire story on AO3
The story, from what Meg could gather, was this. Ted and Bobby York had been picked up from their respective schools the previous afternoon, and had arrived in their uncle's house in Cambridge where they were to spend the night before leaving for New York. At some point during the night, the police had barged in--the details of the case remained undisclosed, much to Meg and Hastings' frustration--snatched up the boys, and handed them over to their other uncle, Richard.
Mrs. Woodville had taken her shellshocked daughter by the arm and all but manhandled her into a limo. With a dead look at Meg, Edward York's widow had said, "If you need me, you can reach me on my cellphone. But he's not getting Ellie. Not in a thousand years."
As she followed her daughter, Meg heard her begin barking orders to the chauffeur. She opened her mouth but Hastings laid one hand on her arm. "No, Meg. So long as Richard has her boys, she won't go far."
Behind them, Meg heard the sound of a throat clearing. Framed in the doorway now was the ramrod-straight figure of Cecilia York, matriarch of the family and herself a shareholder in Broome Investments. She also had the dubious distinction of being one of the few people in Manhattan who could still frighten Bill Hastings and, by extension, Meg. "Do you plan to stand out here all day, Chief Hastings?" she asked in a voice chillier than the Hudson in February. "I seem to remember there was a funeral planned."
There hadn't been a funeral for George--not a proper one, at any rate. With his elder brother in the hospital, the only people who had been there were his mother and Robert Brakenbury, George's on-again-off-again AA sponsor.
"But what about--"
"Never you mind, Detective Stanley. This is enough of a fiasco already." She closed her eyes briefly, an uncharacteristic hesitation. "This day is for Edward. Anything else can wait until tomorrow."
It didn't occur to anybody to question that. Even when her only remaining son arrived some twenty minutes later, nobody said anything about the events of the previous night, although Meg could see Ted, looking painfully young in a blazer and Phillips tie, constantly glancing back toward the door as if looking for someone.
The funeral was surprisingly short and to the point. Hastings ended up speaking impromptu since Professor Woodville was absent, and everyone did their best not to look at the empty spots in the pew between Cecilia York and her two silent grandsons.
The eulogy concluded simply. "It was an honor and a privilege to call Edward my best friend. More than that, he was my brother. We--" He stopped, too choked to finish, and stepped down from the podium.
Meg had teared up more than once during the speech and even though the jokes were ones she'd heard a dozen times before, she found herself chuckling nonetheless. When Hastings returned to his spot beside her, she squeezed his hand. "He'd be proud of you, Bill."
He sniffed. "Thanks, Meggie. I'm just glad it's over."
She fell into step beside Ted York as they left the cathedral after the service. He looked very like his mother, she realized when he looked at her. "You're Detective Stanley, I think. Dad told me who you were once, but I'm sorry if I'm wrong."
"You're right," she smiled. "Were you looking for someone in there?"
"My uncle--Uncle Anthony, that is." He swallowed. "I don't know where he went. The police came and nobody tells me anything."
"I..." Meg trailed off, at a loss. "I'm afraid I don't know the details, Ted, but I'll tell you once I hear anything."
"Promise?" There was an odd note of desperation in the boy's voice. "Please promise. I don't want anything bad to happen to him. He didn't do anything wrong!"
"I know he didn't, and I'm sure the police in Boston will know it too, soon enough." As she said it, Meg hoped inwardly that she wasn't lying to the kid. Whoever planned this had covered his tracks incredibly well and she had the horrible suspicion that Anthony Woodville wouldn't be getting out of custody anytime soon. "How are you holding up?"
Ted shrugged. "Bobby doesn't get it. It's like he forgot when Dad was in the hospital last year. But Mom told me that this might happen. She said Dad didn't take care of himself properly." He blinked up at her. "Where is she?"
"I don't know, Ted--"
"Gone off to the Hamptons, would be my guess." Meg found herself facing Harriet Buckingham, Broome's top corporate counsel. Her purse was clearly doubling as a briefcase, even at a funeral, and the black suit she wore had subtle pinstripes, suggesting she was making a stop on her way to the office. "You didn't see the pre-nup. If it hadn't been for me, this young man wouldn't have a cent."
"She seemed very worried," Meg said warily. "I don't think she trusts her brother-in-law."
Harriet gave a dismissive wave. "She'll get over it. Or not. Either way, she's irrelevant. You," she said, looking down at Ted, "are the way of the future."
"I'd rather see my mom, if you don't mind," Ted said. "Can you call her?"
"Would you call her, Ms. Buckingham?" she corrected him with a disapproving shake of her head. "Kids these days have no manners, do they?"
"I'll call her, Ted," Meg interjected, catching the other woman's eye. "The car's waiting for you now." She could still see his pale face in the window of the limo as it pulled away from the church and it occurred to her with a shiver that he looked like a ghost. Harriet muttered something about the office and stepped into a nearby Town Car with Broome corporate plates.
"Something walk over your grave, Detective?"
Meg spun on her heel to find Richard York making his way toward her, leaning heavily on his trademark cane. The rumor was it had one of those knives hidden inside it, but nobody had thought to ask. She shrugged, pushing the idle question aside. "Not so much my grave, Mr. York. Though I have to wonder why your sister-in-law is so frightened of you."
"You and me both, Detective. We've never been on the best of terms, I'll grant, but..." he gave a half-shrug. "Who knows?"
"And what about Professor Woodville?" Meg crossed her arms and studied him warily. "You sure seemed to be in the right place at the right time to grab your nephews when that went down."
"What can I say? Police contacts have their uses." He shook his head. "Awful about poor Anthony, though. I have to say, I wouldn't have thought it of him. But it just goes to show, you think you know a person."
She briefly entertained the thought that he might be sincere. But you didn't become the youngest attorney in line for partner at Neville & Warwick--or any law firm for that matter--by being sincere. Before she could question Richard further, however, he excused himself to greet a young woman who had just arrived, wearing a veiled hat just this side of tasteful enough for a funeral. Meg supposed you needed something eccentric if you were out with Richard York and wanted to make an impression on anybody.
"I'm sorry, darling, the 1 was horrendously slow. I didn't miss everything, did I?"
Meg recognized her as soon as she pulled off her sunglasses. Anne Warwick's taste in boyfriends was as doubtful as her editorials in the Atlantic were sacrosanct, and she had a mordant disregard for police officers and paparazzi alike. Of course, it was hard to blame her. Anyone who had come as close as she did to having Margot Lancaster as a mother-in-law deserved a medal for getting out alive, let alone making such a smooth transition to the winning side of this past decade's bloodiest corporate merger--in more ways than one. Nobody had ever figured out what caused Eddie Lancaster's little Cessna to plunge into the Atlantic, but his death had ensured Broome's undisputed place at the top of the NYSE's docket, and Anne had made tabloid history by appearing at his memorial service on the arm of Richard York.
"You missed the service, I'm afraid, but we're on our way to the burial now. You know Anne, don't you, Detective?" Richard said, holding out his hand to catch his girlfriend's arm. "Anne Warwick, this is police detective Margaret Stanley."
Anne held out one hand with a cool smile, and Meg immediately noticed the ring. "Detective Stanley. It's a pleasure to meet you. I just wish it were under better circumstances."
"Likewise, Ms. Warwick. And if I may offer my congratulations." Turning to Richard, she smiled. "To you too, Mr. York. I wasn't aware that you were engaged."
"Owing to the circumstances, we decided to keep things quiet." So it had been recent. Meg couldn't help but wonder how recent. Not for the first time, she recalled the rumor so quickly silenced that Eddie Lancaster's death might not have been an accident. But now wasn't the time. Straightening the uncomfortable suit that only came out of her closet for funerals, Meg joined Hastings and Catesby in the cruiser so they could drive to the cemetery.
***
Edward York's will was being read in the executive conference room at Broome Investments, on the seventy-fifth floor of one of the newest high-rises in Midtown. Meg, of course, wasn't invited, so she found a spot on a bench in Bryant Park and called Henry, expecting to have to leave a message. Rather to her surprise, he picked up.
"Mom! I thought you had to go to Edward York's funeral today." She could hear a roaring noise behind him. "Sorry about that. The wind's crazy down here today."
"No problem, sweetie. The funeral's over. I just wanted to hear your voice." Meg wasn't given to sentiment and the words surprised her. "That's all."
"Mom, really." She could hear the eyeroll in his voice. "This isn't like you. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Henry. You're right. I'm being silly."
"Mom. Snap out of it and tell me what's up. You're weirding me out." After a second, he added, "I'm training for the FBI, Mom. You don't need to hide things from me."
"I do if it's an ongoing case, young man. You should know that." Meg laughed in spite of herself. "It's just getting to me. This case. I don't like it. Something about it smells wrong, y'know?"
"But I thought York died of a heart attack. That's what all the news channels are saying." She heard the sound of a door closing and his voice became clearer. "Are they covering it up?"
"I'm not saying anything like that, Henry, and you're not allowed to repeat a word of this, do you understand?" Without waiting for an answer, Meg continued, "Yes, Edward died of a heart attack. I was an eyewitness. It's just..."
"Too convenient?"
Meg sighed. "I know. You think I'm crazy?"
"You're never crazy when it comes to work, Mom."
"I heard the caveat in that, young man. Are you sure you're going into the police and not the law?" Inevitably, that made her think of Richard York again and she had to suppress a shudder. "Anyway, I'll let you go. I'm probably interrupting something very important."
"Just my lunch break. Love you, Mom."
She said her farewells and hung up. The breeze had picked up by the time she reached Park Avenue and she was holding her suit jacket in a less than dignified manner when she stepped into the glass-and-wrought-iron lobby. Flashing her ID at the security guard, she was pointed to a specific elevator that would take her all the way to the penthouse floor, where Broome's corporate headquarters were housed. The elevator ride was eerily smooth and so fast that Meg's ears had popped by the time the recorded voice announced that she had arrived at her destination.
She heard the crash and the scream within seconds of the elevator doors opening. Meg snatched her gun out of her holster as she dashed forward and threw open the pair of double doors behind the startled receptionist's desk. The first thing she saw was Catesby, out cold on the floor. Then, the prone figure of Richard York, bent near double over one of the expensive leather office chairs. And, behind him, one of the plate-glass windows, shattered.
Meg had never realized just how loud the wind could be on the seventy-fifth floor.
"Hastings." She could barely make out the sound of her own voice, and found herself shouting, "Hastings, goddammit! Where the hell is Chief Hastings?"
Richard York held out one hand silently in the direction of the window. Swallowing the upsurge of bile in her throat, Meg crossed the room and peered out. Somewhere, at the far end of the vertiginous drop to Park Avenue, she could see a growing crowd of people clustered around the smashed pulp that had once been Police Chief Bill Hastings.
"Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ." Meg resisted the urge to curb her own profanity and swung round to face the one witness she had. "You tell me what happened. You tell me right now, or I am cuffing you this goddamn instant and you'll sing like a fucking songbird at headquarters."
"Detective Stanley, please." How could he look so damned calm? Fucking lawyers. "There's a security camera near the window. It'll tell you everything you need to know."
There was a sort of grim satisfaction to cuffing him all the same. He didn't protest, even when the paparazzi swarmed round the patrol car as they shoved him into the back. He had something up his sleeve. Meg could smell it. But she had infinitely more important things to worry about. Like, for instance, her dead boss.
Catesby had come to by the time Meg arrived at the station and he was seated outside the holding cell, a bandage around his head and an icepack in one hand.
"What the hell happened in there?" Meg hissed. "Tell me someone saw something!"
"It all seemed fine when we got there. It was just me, the chief, York, Buckingham, and the old family lawyer Morton, who was supposed to be reading out the will. But we never even got there. York had to take a phone call as soon as the chief and I showed up and when he came back in..." He stared down at the melting icepack. "Christ, Stanley, I can't even begin to explain it."
"Try, Catesby." Grasping his hands, she stared into his eyes. "Our boss just fell from the seventy-fifth floor of a Midtown high-rise and it is our duty, our first duty, to find out how and why that happened. You got me?"
"It all happened so fast. York was talking about how Mrs. Woodville had connections to drug dealers and mentioned some floozy named Jane and suddenly Hastings goes at him like a fucking bulldozer and York's elbow knocks me out cold." He recited the words mechanically, as though repeating a story he'd already told several times, and it occurred to Meg that he must have been cross-examined all the way from the crime scene.
"Christ, Catesby, I'm sorry. I just got so wrapped up, I..." She stopped, took a breath, and let go of his hands. "How are you holding up?"
He gave an approximation of an ambivalent shrug and winced, before raising the icepack to his head. "I'm acting chief of this precinct now, Stanley, and I can't even begin to..." he swallowed. "I need your support. Do I have it?"
"Of course you do, Cate--sir," she corrected herself, suddenly aware as never before of the difference between them in rank. He had always been so unassuming, always Hastings' quiet and obedient shadow. Meg rose to her feet and straightened her jacket. "What would you like me to do, sir?"
"Have you had any more leads on George York?"
Meg had to think for a moment before she remembered him. Poor George. Forgotten in death as he had been in life. "Well...I have a lot of theories, but not so much in the way of leads. Everything's been sort of thrown aside. I guess I should talk to Forensics and see if they found any traceable drugs."
"That sounds like a good start." Catesby closed his eyes and Meg suspected he was probably steadying himself somehow. "Leave Chief Hastings to me, Meg. There's...I'm afraid there's more to all of this than meets the eye."
"You're telling me!" Meg wasn't certain whether to feel relieved that he shared her fears or terrified that they were being confirmed. "Poor Bill. It's just too awful."
Catesby looked at the ground. "I'm afraid it's only going to get worse, Meg. The chief...let's just say he showed you a very different side of who he was."
Meg stared at him in growing horror. "I don't understand."
"Do you know exactly what Hastings and Edward York got up to? The things Hastings covered up?" Catesby was shaking his head slowly. "I know. I helped him, every step of the way, and I followed his orders and I kept it all quiet. It's not pretty, Meg."
"You're not going to posthumously charge him?" she whispered. "Catesby, no. You were his friend. You know his kids, for God's sake." Hastings and his wife had divorced soon after his return from the Middle East and Meg had only met her once or twice, but they all knew the chief's two daughters, who had visited him every other weekend like clockwork until they went away to college.
"I'm going to do what I can to avoid that, Meg, but we have to say something. This is why I need you to find out who killed George York. That's what all of this is about. Richard York is absolutely convinced that his sister-in-law was behind it and that Hastings was protecting her."
"But that's ridiculous. She and Hastings hated each other. I may not know all of the chief's dirty secrets, but I know enough to understand why. Catesby," Meg waited until he looked up at her again, "if Hastings was helping Edward's wife, don't you think we should ask her?"
"We will," Catesby said, "once we've brought her here under arrest." Into Meg's appalled silence, he added weakly, "So, you see. It's doubly important that you get moving with Forensics."
When Meg left the station, she made a beeline for her car and began driving east. As she crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, Mrs. Woodville finally picked up her phone. "Detective Stanley. I hope you're planning to explain what the hell is going on."
She sounded like a woman hanging by a thread. They would make a fantastic pair. "I'm afraid there isn't time, Mrs. Woodville. They're about to put out a warrant for your arrest in connection with George York's murder. Now, please, listen to me. Don't panic. You can't panic." She could hear the other woman's breathing, harsh and quick. "I've just heard from Forensics and they've traced one of the drugs in George's system to a dealer in New Jersey. A dealer who sold once or twice to people in...circles you formerly frequented. Of course," Meg added, "his boss was recently acquitted thanks to the legal pyrotechnics of your other brother-in-law, but I don't doubt Tricky Dick will see to it that the connection stays under wraps."
There was a moment or two of silence. Then, in a voice like dragging chains, Elizabeth Woodville said, "And he has my boys."
Meg had forgotten that. A yawning pit seemed to open in her stomach. "He can't do anything to them, Mrs. Woodville. Please remember that. There are eyes on them all the time. Security details, paparazzi even. God, I never thought I'd be thankful for them." She laughed uneasily. "We'll get your boys away from him. For now, you need to get yourself a lawyer and set aside some money for bail. I'm on my way to Southampton now. I'll take Ellie with me back to the city and make sure she's got a place to stay."
Silence again. Meg suddenly realized that Elizabeth was crying. She remembered what the widow had said to her just earlier that afternoon, what seemed like ages and ages ago. I'm never going to see my boys again.
Three people were already dead. Meg had the horrible feeling that she was right.