He called up the calendar on his phone, handed over the device. Sure enough, her name was entered, today at one.
“Did you know her personal assistant?”
“Ginny? Yeah, what about her?”
Defensive. Interesting. “I understand Mrs. Stanley fired her last week.”
His face took on a ruddy hue. “That’s right.”
“Do you know why?”
“Why would I?”
“You had Mrs. Stanley’s ear. I suspect she was quite…fond of you.”
“Old ladies like me. I make them feel good about themselves.”
“And Ginny? Did she like you, too?”
“What did Margaret tell you?”
“Mrs. Cook? She told us all about Ginny being fired.”
A slight misdirection; she hoped it worked.
It did. He found a chair and sat, demeanor changing from tough-guy to troubled. Resigned. “She was jealous of Ginny,” he said after a moment.
“Because the two of you had something going.”
“Yeah.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “She made up some shit about Ginny stealing from her. Used that as an excuse to let her go.”
He glanced down at the floor, then back up at her. “I flirt with the old birds. Make them feel attractive. Sexy. That’s it. I never take it any further. A little charm helps pay the bills. You know?”
“Sure,” Angelo said. “I get it.”
Micki wasn’t so nice. “Ever try making it strictly on your training abilities?”
He looked pointedly at her breasts. “Did you?”
Micki narrowed her eyes. “We can do this here, Mr. Stone. Or downtown at headquarters.”
He flushed. “You have any idea how hard it is to make a go of it out there? Doing what I do? I’m a damn good trainer, but so are a lot of other guys.”
Obviously, she had pushed a button. She wondered if Stanley had pushed a button, too?
Angelo stepped in. “So, you confronted Mrs. Stanley about firing Ginny? Maybe tried to get her job back.”
Micki took over. “Maybe things got a little crazy. Heat of the moment.”
“No.”
“You lost you temper,” Angelo said. “I get it.”
“No,” he said again. “God, no.”
“When we check Mrs. Stanley’s day planner, will we find an appointment with you for today at one? Or earlier?”
“This is bullshit. I showed you—”
“On your phone, Mr. Stone. You could have added or edited that entry after killing her.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what? Edit the entry or kill her?”
His demeanor changed, indignation now mixed with desperation. Micki pressed harder. “You know what I think? You killed her, Mr. Stone.”
“What? No—”
“It was easy. She turned her back on you and—”
“Ginny needs this job! I was going to talk to Vivianne today. Try to convince her to take her back.”
His voice broke. “I was sure she’d listen to me.”
“But she didn’t,” Angelo said softly. “And you lost it.”
Stone looked up, expression panicked. “I didn’t kill her! I was just—”
“Just what?”
“I didn’t have an appointment today. You were right, I added that in my calendar while I was waiting out on the patio. To cover my butt.”
“Or someone else’s?” Micki offered.
“What do you mean?”
“Ginny had a motive,” Angelo said. “Opportunity, I’d bet.”
“Ginny couldn’t hurt anyone.”
Micki manufactured a sound of sympathy. “Can you guess the percentage of witnesses and loved ones we hear that from? Close to a hundred percent, Mr. Stone.”
“But it’s true.” He moved his gaze between them. “Besides, I was with her this morning.”
“Lovers don’t make good alibis. Not when they’re both suspects.”
He went white. “Suspects? That’s nuts! This place is totally wired. The exterior. Public areas. That’s how Vivianne found out about me and Ginny. Check the surveillance tapes, you’ll see neither Ginny nor I were here before I arrived at one o’clock.”
Video surveillance. Of course. Micki gave herself a mental kick in the pants. “And we plan to review them. Thank you, Mr. Stone. We’ll be in touch.”
Chapter Four
3:20 P.M.
The Stanley’s home security system was badass—the kind stars and politicians installed to protect their homes. The exterior and every public area had been wired. Unfortunately, Stanley’s office was not one of those.
Micki sat in front of the monitors, Angelo beside her. They saw Bitty Vanderlund arrive in her Mercedes sedan, watched her climb out, smoothing her skirt. Typical uptown matron. Perfectly assembled in a smart suit and sensible, low-heeled pumps. Pearls at her throat. Clutch bag. Everything about her shouted wealth and position.
“Rookie move”—Micki said, not taking her gaze from the monitors— “not assuming this place was wired. I can’t believe I let that slip.”
“Let it go, Dare. Scene techs always check for that. Our focus is questioning witnesses and identifying possible suspects.”
“Not good enough.” She realized she was thrumming her fingers on her thighs and stilled them. “I expect better of myself.”