Rook couldn’t help himself. “Now, that’s a marriage of terms that always tickles me, ‘high-?end’ and ‘call girl.’ Like, is that your job status or a sexual position?” He earned their silent stares and muttered, “Sorry. Go on.”
“I can detail the burn rate of the money for you, but suffice it to say these and a few other habits ate away at him financially. Last spring we had to sell the family estate in the Hamptons.”
“Stormfall.” Nikki reflected on Kimberly Starr’s upset that the murder never would have happened if they had been away in the Hamptons. Now she understood its depth and irony.
“Yes, Stormfall. I don’t need to tell you about the bath we took on that property in this market. Sold it to some reality show celebrity and lost millions. The cash from the sale barely made a dent in Matthew’s debt. Things got so bad he ordered me to stop payments on his life insurance, which he let lapse against my advice.”
Heat jotted two new words. “No insurance.” “Did Mrs. Starr know about that?” In the periphery of her vision, she saw Rook lean forward in his chair.
“Yes, she did. I did my best to shelter Kimberly from the seedier details of Matthew’s spending, but she knew about the life insurance. I was there when Matthew told her.”
“And what was her reaction?”
“She said…” He paused. “You have to understand, she was upset.”
“What did she say, Noah? Her exact words, if you remember.”
“She said, ‘I hate you. You’re not even any good to me dead.’”
In the car on the ride back to the precinct, Rook went right to the grieving widow. “Come on, Detective Heat, ‘No good to me dead’? You talk about gathering information that paints a picture. What about this portrait we’re seeing of Samantha the Lap Dancer?”
“But she knew there was no life insurance. Where’s the motive?”
He grinned and needled her again. “Gee, I don’t know, but my advice is to keep asking questions and see where they lead.”
“Bite me.”
“Oh, are you talking tough with me now that you have other irons in the fire?”
“I’m talking tough because you are an ass. And I don’t get what you mean by other irons.”
“I mean Noah Paxton. I didn’t know whether to throw a bucket of water on you or fake a cell phone call to leave you two alone.”
“This is why you’re a magazine writer who only plays cop. Your imagination is greater than your grasp of facts.”
He shrugged. “Guess I was wrong.” Then he smiled that smile, the one that made her face flush. And there she was again, feeling this torment over Rook for something she should have laughed off. Instead, she popped in her earbud and speed-?dialed Raley.
“Rales, it’s me.” She angled her head toward Rook and sounded brisk and formal, so he wouldn’t miss her meaning, even though she did radiate subtext. “I want you to run a background on Matthew Starr’s financial guy. Name’s Noah Paxton. Just see what kicks out, priors, warrants, the usual.”
After she hung up, Rook looked amused. This was going nowhere she liked, but she had to say it. “What.” And when he didn’t answer, “What?”
“You forgot to have him run a check on Paxton’s cologne.” And then he opened a magazine and read.
Detective Raley looked up from his computer when Heat and Rook came into the bull pen. “That guy you wanted me to run, Noah Paxton?”
“Yeah? You got something?”
“Not so far. But he called for you just now.”
Nikki avoided the playground look she was getting from Rook and surveyed the stack of messages on her desk. Noah Paxton’s was on top. She didn’t pick it up. Instead, she asked Raley if Ochoa had checked in. He was on Kimberly Starr surveillance. The widow was spending the afternoon at Bergdorf Goodman.
“I hear shopping is a balm for the bereaved,” said Rook. “Or maybe the merry widow is returning a few designer rags for ready cash.”