together and rocked back and forth. The man never could stay still. “I have to show you guys around.”
Gild turned to him and put up both hands, like a hall monitor calming down an overexcited student. “Let’s do it after,” she said. “April’s ready.”
“Mustn’t keep our celebrity client waiting.” Cutter made an effort to lower his voice but wasn’t very successful. “We have this fantastic new espresso machine. I’ll get the receptionist to make you a latte.”
“What happened to your famous coffee thermos?” Greene asked.
Cutter put his head back and let out a guffaw. As a Crown, he loved to brag about raising four kids on his civil servant’s salary, and how he did it with bagged lunches and coffee from home in his battered old thermos.
“I’m in the marketing business now. Follow me to our beautiful boardroom.” He led them down the hall.
Kennicott noticed Cutter’s fancy Armani pants were belted up too high, exposing a pair of cheap beige socks. He caught Greene’s eye. The detective always dressed impeccably, and he could tell Greene had seen them too. He winked at Kennicott.
Goodling sat at the far end of a black-lacquered rectangular table. A heavyset man with almost no neck was seated beside her. The actress stood the moment they came in, making direct eye contact first with Kennicott, then Greene. Her hair, a reddish brown shade that matched her tan complexion, swept back from her forehead and was gathered in a confident ponytail over her left shoulder. She wore a glistening white shirt, with the collar up, under a green cashmere sweater. In her hands was a sheaf of legal papers that she held in front of her body like ashield. Her face was perfectly proportioned, high cheekbones, stunning eyes, slender nose. It was hard not to stare at her.
For the last decade Kennicott had had an on-again, off-again relationship with a fashion model named Andrea. A year earlier, things had finally ended for good when she moved to Milan to live with a photographer. In all those years, he’d learned what it was like for people who were born with natural beauty. How they developed the instinct to retreat, build their own walls of protection, crave privacy.
“Hello, officers.” Goodling extended her right hand across the table, keeping her paper shield in place with her left. “Barbara and Philip speak highly of both of you.”
“Thanks.” Kennicott let go of Goodling’s hand. Barb and Phil were now Barbara and Philip. He exchanged bemused looks with Greene.
Greene took the seat at the end of the table next to Goodling, and Kennicott sat beside him. Cutter and Gild walked to the other side. Cutter jerked his head, and the bodyguard got up and stood behind Goodling.
Taking his time, Greene opened his notebook, took out a micro-recorder, and placed it on the table. “You don’t mind if I record this?” he asked Cutter.
“Not at all,” Cutter said.
Greene checked his watch. “It’s five minutes after eleven, Monday, August sixteenth. This is Homicide Detective Ari Greene. I’m here with Officer Daniel Kennicott at the offices of defense counsels Ms. Barbara Gild and Mr. Philip Cutter. They are here with their client Ms. April Goodling and …” He nodded toward the no-neck bodyguard. “Sir, your name?”
“Bluin. Pete Bluin.”
“Thank you,” Greene said. “We’re investigating the murder of Terrance Wyler.”
Kennicott was watching Goodling. As Wyler’s name was spoken, he saw her shoulders twitch.
“I want it clear from the top,” Cutter said, his usually loud voice restrained and sober, “that earlier this morning, acting on our client’s instructions, I contacted Detective Greene and arranged this meeting.”
“That’s correct,” Greene said. “Question number one,” Cutter asked. “Is my client a suspect?”
“Not at this time. We’re at the early stages,” Greene said. “That’s why we want to speak to her.”
“April won’t make any statements
Gild turned to him and put up both hands, like a hall monitor calming down an overexcited student. “Let’s do it after,” she said. “April’s ready.”
“Mustn’t keep our celebrity client waiting.” Cutter made an effort to lower his voice but wasn’t very successful. “We have this fantastic new espresso machine. I’ll get the receptionist to make you a latte.”
“What happened to your famous coffee thermos?” Greene asked.
Cutter put his head back and let out a guffaw. As a Crown, he loved to brag about raising four kids on his civil servant’s salary, and how he did it with bagged lunches and coffee from home in his battered old thermos.
“I’m in the marketing business now. Follow me to our beautiful boardroom.” He led them down the hall.
Kennicott noticed Cutter’s fancy Armani pants were belted up too high, exposing a pair of cheap beige socks. He caught Greene’s eye. The detective always dressed impeccably, and he could tell Greene had seen them too. He winked at Kennicott.
Goodling sat at the far end of a black-lacquered rectangular table. A heavyset man with almost no neck was seated beside her. The actress stood the moment they came in, making direct eye contact first with Kennicott, then Greene. Her hair, a reddish brown shade that matched her tan complexion, swept back from her forehead and was gathered in a confident ponytail over her left shoulder. She wore a glistening white shirt, with the collar up, under a green cashmere sweater. In her hands was a sheaf of legal papers that she held in front of her body like ashield. Her face was perfectly proportioned, high cheekbones, stunning eyes, slender nose. It was hard not to stare at her.
For the last decade Kennicott had had an on-again, off-again relationship with a fashion model named Andrea. A year earlier, things had finally ended for good when she moved to Milan to live with a photographer. In all those years, he’d learned what it was like for people who were born with natural beauty. How they developed the instinct to retreat, build their own walls of protection, crave privacy.
“Hello, officers.” Goodling extended her right hand across the table, keeping her paper shield in place with her left. “Barbara and Philip speak highly of both of you.”
“Thanks.” Kennicott let go of Goodling’s hand. Barb and Phil were now Barbara and Philip. He exchanged bemused looks with Greene.
Greene took the seat at the end of the table next to Goodling, and Kennicott sat beside him. Cutter and Gild walked to the other side. Cutter jerked his head, and the bodyguard got up and stood behind Goodling.
Taking his time, Greene opened his notebook, took out a micro-recorder, and placed it on the table. “You don’t mind if I record this?” he asked Cutter.
“Not at all,” Cutter said.
Greene checked his watch. “It’s five minutes after eleven, Monday, August sixteenth. This is Homicide Detective Ari Greene. I’m here with Officer Daniel Kennicott at the offices of defense counsels Ms. Barbara Gild and Mr. Philip Cutter. They are here with their client Ms. April Goodling and …” He nodded toward the no-neck bodyguard. “Sir, your name?”
“Bluin. Pete Bluin.”
“Thank you,” Greene said. “We’re investigating the murder of Terrance Wyler.”
Kennicott was watching Goodling. As Wyler’s name was spoken, he saw her shoulders twitch.
“I want it clear from the top,” Cutter said, his usually loud voice restrained and sober, “that earlier this morning, acting on our client’s instructions, I contacted Detective Greene and arranged this meeting.”
“That’s correct,” Greene said. “Question number one,” Cutter asked. “Is my client a suspect?”
“Not at this time. We’re at the early stages,” Greene said. “That’s why we want to speak to her.”
“April won’t make any statements
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