newshound professionals upon whom you could depend to be discrete, discerning and at times even helpful. Now, they were all sensationalists, digger creatures with no regard for privacy, evidence, accuracy or even the truth. No stor ies , just sound bites and blu r bs designed for the short attention span and fast-paced lifestyle of their indiscriminate audiences . The more bizarre the case, the more papers they sold, the more advertisers they drew . This one had their blood pumping. They were a frenzied pack of predators scenting blood on the wind.
Th e apartment had elevators, much to my delight. The door attendant , dressed in red with a red cap, held the elevator doors for us but looked down his nose at us as if he had preferred we had used the delivery entrance .
I turned to Lew. “What do you know about the victim?”
Lew pulled out his notebook but spoke mostly from memory. “ The penthouse suite belong s to Sasha Sattersby of Sattersby perfume fame. Her g randmother , Lorene Sattersby , started her line of fragrances during the Great Depression, at first selling them from her home , then moved up to booths in Macy’s and Saks Fifth Avenue. Now, it ’s a worldwide corporation. Sasha’s parents died during an avalanche in France when she was only five. When her grandmother and grandfather passed away two years ago, she inherited an estate valued at five- hundred and fifty million dollars, the company and, unfortunately, her father’s penchant for booze and fast living. ”
I whistled appreciat ively. “Rich girl.” I remembered seeing her on the news and on the covers of a few of the gossip rags in the newsstands. Hardly a week went by without some paparazzi catching her at her worst – one of her half dozen drunken driving fender benders, attacking a bouncer at a nightclub, escorted by security from some airport for verbally assaulting the stewards. By all reports, s he was a spoiled, screwed up kid but she deserved better than this.
“Her money didn’t help her,” Lew commented dryly.
“That’s why I stay poor,” I said as the elevator doors opened . “Less to miss when I’m gone.”
The corridor was bustling with uniformed officers, curious residents and forensics photographers. The apartment looked like I thought a half billionaires’ penthouse should . W hite carpet so soft I wanted to take off my shoes and stroll across it barefooted stretched like a blanket of freshly fallen snow from wall to wall. I looked around almost expecting a ski lift. Persian rugs that cost more than my condo and stylish , but to my mind uncomfortable , late-sixties Danish furniture straight from the showroom window of Dansk Mobelkunst gave the living room a magazine feel. E xpensive Impression Era artwork and statues that could have graced any gallery an d , my favorite, a wide-screen HD television that probably cos t more than my car completed the room’s decor . My own condo looked like a college dorm room compared to Sattersby’s. My tastes were simple but I had flipped through a couple of furniture magazines and recognized that either Sasha Sattersby had a good eye for decorating or had the help of a n expensive decorator.
Broken glass from the balcony sliding glass door littered the white carpet, now marred by a pool of blood. More blood splattered a n overturned coffee table and bookcase , indicating Ms. Sattersby had not succumbed without a fight. A bloody handprint on the white curtain and a single naked, bloody footprint showed she had clutched the curtain and kicked out at her attacker. Good for her . This time we got lucky, or so I thought. Beside her obvious footprint was a partial footprint too large for her foot . U pon closer examination, I found it to be too blurry to be of much use for identification. Part of the heel was visible, but the remainder trailed off into three indistinct lines where toes should be. T he heel was bigger than mine or even Lew’s, whose seven-foot NBAer now didn’t
Th e apartment had elevators, much to my delight. The door attendant , dressed in red with a red cap, held the elevator doors for us but looked down his nose at us as if he had preferred we had used the delivery entrance .
I turned to Lew. “What do you know about the victim?”
Lew pulled out his notebook but spoke mostly from memory. “ The penthouse suite belong s to Sasha Sattersby of Sattersby perfume fame. Her g randmother , Lorene Sattersby , started her line of fragrances during the Great Depression, at first selling them from her home , then moved up to booths in Macy’s and Saks Fifth Avenue. Now, it ’s a worldwide corporation. Sasha’s parents died during an avalanche in France when she was only five. When her grandmother and grandfather passed away two years ago, she inherited an estate valued at five- hundred and fifty million dollars, the company and, unfortunately, her father’s penchant for booze and fast living. ”
I whistled appreciat ively. “Rich girl.” I remembered seeing her on the news and on the covers of a few of the gossip rags in the newsstands. Hardly a week went by without some paparazzi catching her at her worst – one of her half dozen drunken driving fender benders, attacking a bouncer at a nightclub, escorted by security from some airport for verbally assaulting the stewards. By all reports, s he was a spoiled, screwed up kid but she deserved better than this.
“Her money didn’t help her,” Lew commented dryly.
“That’s why I stay poor,” I said as the elevator doors opened . “Less to miss when I’m gone.”
The corridor was bustling with uniformed officers, curious residents and forensics photographers. The apartment looked like I thought a half billionaires’ penthouse should . W hite carpet so soft I wanted to take off my shoes and stroll across it barefooted stretched like a blanket of freshly fallen snow from wall to wall. I looked around almost expecting a ski lift. Persian rugs that cost more than my condo and stylish , but to my mind uncomfortable , late-sixties Danish furniture straight from the showroom window of Dansk Mobelkunst gave the living room a magazine feel. E xpensive Impression Era artwork and statues that could have graced any gallery an d , my favorite, a wide-screen HD television that probably cos t more than my car completed the room’s decor . My own condo looked like a college dorm room compared to Sattersby’s. My tastes were simple but I had flipped through a couple of furniture magazines and recognized that either Sasha Sattersby had a good eye for decorating or had the help of a n expensive decorator.
Broken glass from the balcony sliding glass door littered the white carpet, now marred by a pool of blood. More blood splattered a n overturned coffee table and bookcase , indicating Ms. Sattersby had not succumbed without a fight. A bloody handprint on the white curtain and a single naked, bloody footprint showed she had clutched the curtain and kicked out at her attacker. Good for her . This time we got lucky, or so I thought. Beside her obvious footprint was a partial footprint too large for her foot . U pon closer examination, I found it to be too blurry to be of much use for identification. Part of the heel was visible, but the remainder trailed off into three indistinct lines where toes should be. T he heel was bigger than mine or even Lew’s, whose seven-foot NBAer now didn’t
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