Cold Case Cop

Chapter 3

Monday, July 14, 10:45 a.m.

Tara was glad to leave the Beacon Hill district. She cut through side streets, winding her way north for several miles until she reached the north end.

This part of town always brought her blood pressure down. She loved the narrow, winding streets and the four-story brick apartment houses. No one here had a yard, and during summer evenings neighbors often set up chairs on the sidewalk to chat. The taverns had a homey feel to them. The shops were practical, not pretentious. The food was hearty and not gourmet. This was where the working class people lived.

She checked her notes to confirm Marco Borelli’s address. Marco had been Kit’s chauffeur—the one man besides her husband who’d spent the most time with her. There’d been reports that the two had often talked quietly to each other, and some rumors suggested they had been having an affair. However, nothing was ever proven.

Tara wove down a collection of side streets into a poorer section of town. She parked in front of an apartment house that looked in need of renovation.

She got out of the car and climbed the stairs to the front door. Close up, she could see that the black paint was peeling and the threshold was rotting. Mortar between the bricks was chipped, and there was a strong smell of garbage. She tried the front door and discovered it was locked.

Frustrated, she glanced to the call buttons on the left side of the door. It was doubtful Borelli would let her in, so she pushed several at once, hoping one of the residents upstairs would buzz her in. In a clear voice, she said into the intercom, “Pizza.”

To her relief, the lock clicked open and she quickly entered the building.

Tara climbed the steps to the third floor. Her nose wrinkled at the blending smells of cabbage and trash. The hardwood floors on the steps were scarred and the banister was shaky enough to give way with the slightest amount of pressure. When she reached the third floor, she found apartment three-A and knocked.

No answer. She knocked again. “Mr. Borelli, are you home?”

Tara pressed her ear to the door and heard the faint sound of a TV game show. Someone was in there. She knocked again. “Mr. Borelli?”

Frustrated, she pulled a business card from her purse and wrote a quick note for him to call her. She tucked it in his doorjamb.

Tara was about to leave when Borelli’s door snapped open. Her card fluttered to the floor.

A man stood in the doorway, his wide, muscled shoulders filling the door. He had coal-black hair slicked back off his face, a wide jaw and a muscular build accentuated by a tight black T-shirt. Diamond studs adorned each earlobe and a gold chain hung around his neck.

In the pictures she had of Borelli, he was always in the background behind Kit, and was always conservatively dressed in a dark suit. He was part chauffeur and part bodyguard. “Mr. Borelli?” Tara asked.

He frowned. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

“I’m Tara Mackey. I have a few questions for you about Kit Westgate.”

His scowl made his thick brow look heavier. “I don’t talk to cops.”

“I’m not a cop. I work for the Boston Globe. I’m a reporter.”

His expression darkened, and she suspected he liked cops better than reporters. “I’m done talking with reporters, too. You all are a bunch of bloodsuckers, if you ask me. You vultures just about hounded me to death a year ago.” He reached inside his apartment, grabbed a bag of garbage and then shouldered past her to the waste chute. His thick aftershave trailed after him.

“I am a fair reporter.”

He snorted. “Right. Between the cops and the reporters, my life was hell. I ain’t going back to that.”

She peered into his apartment. The small room was furnished with a sofa and a TV. Her gaze skimmed past a half-eaten pizza on the lone coffee table, and over the floor littered with empty beer cans.

Her nose wrinkled. “Did you have a party?”

Borelli muttered an oath. “None of your business.”

“Hey, I’m not here to cause you trouble. You were cleared by the cops of any wrongdoing in Kit’s disappearance. You were in New York the day the Landovers married and she vanished.”

He yanked the chute open and dumped the trash down. He released the door, and it banged against the wall. “That’s right. I was hundreds of miles away.”

“So it shouldn’t be a big deal for you to answer a couple of questions. Five minutes of your time is all I ask.”

He folded his arms over his chest. On his biceps there was a tattoo of a coiled snake holding a broken heart. “You’re gonna twist my words like those other reporters did.”

“I won’t. I just want to hear your side of the story.” And then, without waiting for a no answer, she said, “You used to live on the Landover estate, didn’t you?”

He glanced at his buffed nails. “Yeah, I had a guest cottage near the garage.”

“You must have had a sense of how Landover’s relationship was going with Kit. Do you think he could have killed her?”

Borelli’s face hardened. “Sure, he could have killed her. The guy had a temper, and I saw him slap Kit in the face once.”

“You tell the cops?”

“I sure did.” He leaned toward her, his tall frame towering over her. “Kit was afraid of Pierce. And I think she’d have backed out of the marriage if she could have. But she was afraid to.”

“She told you she was afraid?”

“Yeah. A couple of times.” He was a hard one to read.

“Why would Mr. Landover kill Kit on their wedding day? Especially with half the world watching.”

Borelli shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Rich people are different than the rest of us. All I know is that they fought often those last few weeks. Even on their wedding day they got into it. You hear a lot when you’re sitting in the front seat of a car.”

“What did they fight about?”

“Anything and everything. Mostly, he just didn’t like the way she flirted with other men. And she didn’t like being told what to do.”

This was a side of Kit she’d never heard about. “Did she flirt with anyone in particular?”

“Naw. She just liked men. And she really enjoyed wrapping them around her finger.” He frowned as if a memory jabbed at him. Abruptly, he moved around her to the threshold of his apartment. “I’ve said what I’m going to say. You’re making me miss Wheel of Fortune.”

Tara thought about the pictures she’d collected of Kit during her research. A sharp intelligence burned behind her sapphire eyes. “What about the missing gems? She was wearing fifteen million in ice when she vanished. Any theories on that?”

“How would I know? I’m guessing that whoever killed her must have taken them.” He leaned against the door frame, letting his gaze trail over her body. A smile played at the edge of his mouth.

When Kirkland’s gaze had glided over her this morning, she’d felt a thrill of desire. This guy gave her the creeps. “She was from California?”

“Yeah. Northern California. Wine country.”

“Did she ever keep up with anyone from her past?”

“Kit wasn’t the type that looked back.”

“If Pierce didn’t kill her, any thoughts on who else might have murdered her?”

“If I knew, I’d have told the cops. But I still say that it was Landover.” He flexed his biceps and the snake appeared to move. “So why you asking all these questions now? Kit’s yesterday’s news.”

“She was a beautiful woman and she died young, like Marilyn Monroe or Anna Nicole Smith. People never get tired of hearing about those women. Even after years, their deaths are still shrouded in conspiracy theories.”

“You’re wrong. Kit’s old news. Nobody cares about a spoiled, dead socialite.”

She tried to keep her voice casual. “You said dead socialite. So you’re sure she’s dead.”

He paused a beat to gather his thoughts. “She has to be dead. All that blood. No one could have survived.”

“No body was found,” she prompted.

Borelli grinned and, leaning forward, whispered, “Disposing of bodies is easy, lady. Just takes a few garbage bags and a saw.”

A shudder ran through her body. She’d interviewed enough career criminals to recognize one. “You speaking from firsthand experience?”

He winked at her. “My advice to you is butt out. Or you might end up like Kit.”

Her stomach knotted with tension, but she held her ground. “That a threat?”

Borelli smiled. A gold incisor glittered. “Friendly warning. Now go find yourself another story and stay out of my life.” He retreated into the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Tara stared at the closed door and dug her hand through her hair. “Not exactly a home run, but it’s a start.”

She checked her watch. She had time for one more interview before her shift at the bar where she worked nights. She had taken a sizable pay cut to move north. Reporting now barely kept a roof over her head, and she needed the second job to pay off the mountain of student loans from college.

Reston and Borelli had been difficult but she suspected her next interview was going to be worse. She had to find a way to get into the exclusive Founders’ Yacht Club and speak to some of Kit’s old friends.

She’d not been to the club in a long time, and didn’t relish returning.

Alex spent the better part of the morning trying to forget Tara. But her visit had awakened so many unanswered questions that lingered from the Kit Westgate case.

He paced his office floor, ignoring the ache in his leg. Tara had said she was going to talk to Pierce. But he knew she would never get past Landover’s assistant. Mrs. Reston had made hardened cops cringe. And if Tara thought she’d get quotes from any of the old man’s friends, she was also mistaken. Boston society was an elite, closed group that didn’t like airing dirty laundry.

But Alex could step into Landover’s exclusive world. He’d been born into one of the wealthiest families in the state. He’d done his undergrad at Princeton and earned his law degree from Harvard. He’d been groomed to take over the Kirkland empire. And then his cousin had been slain by a mugger. The incident had rocked the family and changed the direction of his life. He’d quit the family business and joined the police force. The decision had cost him personally. His wife, Regina, hadn’t understood the decision and had left him. His parents and brother were also furious with him. Even now his relationship with his family was strained.

But he’d never regretted his decision for a moment. He belonged in the police department.

Alex dialed Detective Brady’s extension. Seconds later, the cop appeared at his door. “What do you need, Sergeant?”

Rising, Alex put the brunt of his weight on his good leg. “I’m going out for an hour or two. I want to follow up on a lead associated with the Kit Westgate case.”

“You have a lead after a year?” Brady sounded surprised. “What is it?”

“Let me chase it down first. It most likely won’t play out.”

“No problem.” Brady offered a crooked smile. “This got anything to do with Tara Mackey showing up here this morning?”

Alex wondered when he’d become so transparent. “Unfortunately, yes. She’s going to do a piece on the anniversary of Kit’s disappearance.”

“Jeez. That’s all we need.”

“To her credit, she raised a few good questions.”

Brady shook his head as if he were talking to one of his own five sons. “She’s trouble.”

Alex opened his desk drawer, pulled out his .38 and slid it into the gun holster on his belt. “Tell me what I don’t know. But I’ve got to do a little nosing around just to settle my own doubts.”

Brady’s barrel chest filled with a deep breath. “You don’t want me to ride along? I could drive.”

The two men had only spoken about the shooting once. Brady had tried to show his gratitude over Kirkland saving him by way of an awkward thank-you. But Kirkland’s own guilt over not being quicker on the draw had made it impossible for him to really discuss the incident. If he’d been a second slower, those five Brady boys wouldn’t have a father. “Thanks. But I got it covered. I’ll be back by lunch.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

It took Alex thirty minutes to cut through the city traffic and reach the exclusive Founders’ Yacht Club located on Dorchester Bay. The club was one of the oldest in the state and had been a familiar spot for Kit and Pierce during their courtship.

Alex always felt as if he were stepping back in time when he drove through the club’s brick-and-iron gates. Manicured lawns and discreet hedges lined the driveway that took him to the circle in front of the club’s entrance. The two-story building was made of white marble and had large white columns. Large sections of the exterior were covered with neatly trimmed ivy.

A parking attendant glanced at Alex’s police-issue Impala as if he weren’t sure what to make of it or Alex. But then he got a look at Alex’s face and relaxed. “Mr. Kirkland. Are you going sailing today?”

“No. This is a quick trip.” Alex left the keys in the ignition and the engine running. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, so you might not want to park it in the annex lot.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Alex made his way up the stairs until he came face-to-face with a tall bear of a man. Dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie, the man stood by the front door behind the reservation table, guarding the front gate of the club like a centurion.

“Danny,” Alex said.

The man’s stern face softened the instant his gaze met Alex’s. “Mr. K. How are you doing?”

Alex liked Danny. “Good, Danny. How’s that brother of yours?”

“Staying out of trouble,” he said, lowering his voice. “Thanks for the talking-to you gave him. I can assure you that he won’t be a problem again.”

When Danny’s brother Frankie had been arrested, the doorman had called Alex in a panic. Alex had pulled the kid out of holding and then taken him for a personal tour of the jail. By the time their visit had ended, the fourteen-year-old was pale, desperate to go home and vowing never to shoplift again.

Alex shoved his hand in his pocket. “I’m glad to hear that. Is my grandmother here?”

His grandmother, Gertrude Elizabeth Kirkland, and her four oldest friends met each Monday for a very serious game of gin rummy. The ladies could afford to bet big and they always did. But no matter who won or lost, the pot always went to St. Michael’s Children’s Charities.

Danny nodded. “She and the ladies are at their regular table.”

“Thanks.”

Danny glanced at Alex’s open collar. “Excuse me, Mr. K., but you don’t have a tie.”

Alex reached for his collar. He’d taken his tie off after Mackey had left because it had suddenly felt so confining. “I left it in my desk.”

“You got to have a tie in the main room.”

“I know.” As a teenager, Alex had hated the club’s mandatory tie rule. These days, remembering those petty rebellions made him smile. “Do you have an extra one that I could borrow?”

Danny smiled as he pulled a red tie out from under his desk and handed it to Alex. “How’s that?”

“Perfect.” Alex wrapped the tie around his neck and quickly wound it into a Windsor knot.

In the main dining room, round tables covered in starched white linens hosted dozens of different people who all looked very much alike. The women wore couture and the men sported handmade suits. A deep red carpet covered wood floors, drapes framed large floor-to-ceiling glass windows and an enormous crystal chandelier hung from the center of the room. Soft piano music played in the background, melding into the polite conversations, the clink of glasses and the subtle activities of the waitstaff.

The eastern wall of the room was glass, and gave a stunning view of the bay. Blue sky and clear water set off the sails of a dozen white sailboats. When he’d been in ICU, he’d promised himself that he would sail more when he recovered. And he had. He’d spent the last two weeks on the water. The boat had been yare and the weather stunning, but he’d found that sailing alone became tedious.

Alex headed to the large table in the back of the room. It was his grandmother’s favorite table.

His grandmother had a Katharine Hepburn style that set her apart from her peers. Even at seventy-six her mind was sharp, and no one made a move at the club without her knowing it. He’d exhausted all conventional investigation methods after Kit had vanished. No tactic had revealed anything that cracked the case. Today, he thought he’d try a different approach.

Right after Kit’s disappearance, Gertie had been in France, so he’d not questioned her, but now he realized she could give him a different perspective on the case.

Gertie’s friends flanked her left and right. All wore suits in varying shades of red or blue, pearls around their necks and their white hair coiffed into tight curls.

Peering over turquoise reading glasses on her nose, Gertie frowned down at the cards in her hand. “Evelyn, I believe it’s your turn to deal.”

Evelyn, the woman to Gertie’s right, leaned forward and took the pile of cards. “This time you are not going to win.”

Gertie laughed. “We’ll see.”

Alex cleared his throat. “Gertie.”

His grandmother glanced up and immediately smiled. “Alex, what a pleasant surprise! Ladies, you remember my grandson, Detective Alex Kirkland.”

The emphasis on detective spoke to Gertie’s support of his chosen profession. She was the only one in the family who’d approved of his decision.

Alex leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?”

Pride glinted in her eyes. “Excellent. I am winning hand over fist today.”

He smiled at the other ladies. “Watch out, ladies. She cheats.”

The women laughed. Gertie appeared offended. “Alex, I know you didn’t drive across town to question my card skills.”

“Can’t I just come to visit my grandmother?”

Gertie chuckled. “Darling, the club drives you insane. You come here only to get your boat. You never come in the main room and mingle.”

Alex no longer felt as if he fit in here. He and the club members had less and less in common as the years passed.

He pulled up a seat and sat beside her. It felt good to have the weight off his leg. A waiter appeared and offered coffee, which he accepted.

“I’m looking into a case from last year. I was hoping you and your friends might be able to help.”

Across the table, Evelyn dealt the next hand of gin rummy. “This sounds exciting. We’ll help in any way we can.”

The other women nodded.

Gertie removed her glasses. “We are all yours, my dear.”

Alex loosened his tie. “Remember Kit Westgate?”

Each woman’s face tightened, including Gertie’s. “She’s a hard woman to forget.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

Gertie traced the rim of her half-full sherry glass with her fingertip. “West Coast money. Stunningly beautiful. Men could barely think straight when she was in the room. She had a way of making them fall under her spell just by the toss of her head or a smile.”

Alex shifted, remembering his own reaction to Kit. “And?”

“I didn’t like the woman,” Gertie said. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but she could be a cold-hearted manipulator. She could be quite unkind to Pierce. Granted he was a big boy and could take care of himself, but she had him completely wrapped around her finger and could make him do anything. It was rather sad to see.”

That description contrasted what her chauffeur had told him last year. Borelli had described Pierce as abusive.

Evelyn picked up her cards and started to arrange them. “Remember the incident after the Founders’ Ball last year?”

Gertie wrinkled her nose. “Kit got into a fight with the ladies’ room attendant. She didn’t realize I was in the last stall. Anyway, for a moment that cultured, smooth voice of hers slipped. For just a moment, she sounded very common. After that I never believed she was who she said she was.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“Some woman named Brenda. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“Pierce said he did a complete background check on her,” Alex said. “In fact, he was quite helpful to the police, and supplied us with West Coast contacts.”

“He did check her out completely,” Gertie said. “He is a thorough man so he should know. And she did sign a prenup, so he was happy. According to the prenup, she wouldn’t get a dime if she left him.”

Across the table Roddie Talbot ran her finger along her neat strand of pearls. “Kit was quite chummy with her driver.”

“Do you think they were having an affair?” Alex asked. The chauffeur had a record and had been a prime suspect until he’d produced ten witnesses who’d sworn he was in New York City.

“Who’s to say if they were lovers?” Gertie said. “But I can tell you he was quite protective of Kit.”

A clamor of noise had Alex lifting his head. He glanced toward the main entrance and saw a tall blond woman enter. She was wearing a Channel suit that matched her ice-blue eyes.

Regina. His ex-wife. Damn.

As if sensing Alex’s presence, the blonde’s gaze settled on him. Thin lips spread into a wide grin, and she brushed by the man she was with and hurried toward Alex, her arms open. “Alex!”

He had started dating Regina at Princeton, but they’d known of each other since preschool. Their union had thrilled his parents and been an anticipated step after college graduation. After he and Regina had married, Alex had dutifully attended law school, and Regina took her place in society, filling her days with committee meetings and lunches. Their marriage had been happy enough until Alex’s cousin had died and Alex had chosen to join the police force. Regina had been furious. They’d fought bitterly. In the end, she’d asked him to choose between her and the career. He’d chosen the force.

Tension crept up Alex’s spine as he rose. He hadn’t seen Regina since just before the shooting, when she’d called him out of the blue. She’d just broken up with her latest boyfriend and he’d just solved the murder of a young boy. He’d allowed her to charm him and they had ended up in her bed. When he awoke the next morning, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. She’d spoken of reconciliation. When he’d refused, she jetted off to Europe. Two days later, he was shot.

Two weeks ago she’d shown up at his home with a bottle of champagne and a gourmet meal made by her cook. She’d tried to rekindle their relationship again. This time he’d had the good sense to say no.

Regina’s sweet perfume coiled around him as she kissed him on the cheek. “Alex, how are you?”

“Doing well.”

“You look wonderful,” she said, holding him at arm’s distance and studying him. “Tell me you’ve given up any notion of returning to police work.”