Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 29

Sandy woke up shortly before noon, rested and happy. He crept out of bed, made muffins, coffee, and orange juice for two, then tucked the Saturday Times under his arm and took the tray into the bedroom, where Cara was still sound asleep. He set the tray on the bed and kissed her on an ear.

"Mmmmm," she murmured, turning over and putting her arms around his neck. "What a lovely way to be wakened."

"What's your schedule for the coming week?" he asked.

She sat up and accepted a glass of orange juice. "Well, I have a dinner meeting with my most important client on Monday evening, and after that-"

"Is he also your only client?" Sandy asked.

"I'm afraid so. Thea couldn't believe it when I corraled him before even arriving in New York."

"I'm afraid your only client is going to be leaving town on Tuesday," he said.

She looked at him narrowly. "You have something better to do?"

"Yes, I'm going to London."

Her face fell. "For how long?"

He smiled. "How long do you want to stay?"

She smiled. "I'm going, too?"

"I want to get you out of the country for a while, and I have a perfect business excuse: I have to show you the London shop, so that you can design the New York store to resemble it."

"Not just a dirty weekend, but a dirty business trip," she said. "I love it."

He climbed into bed beside her, laughing, and picked up the Times. "Also, I want you to meet my son, Angus."

"Is he in London?"

"He will be in a couple of days; he's flying to Prestwick, in Scotland, on Monday, to run a family errand, then he's coming to London. His new girlfriend will be with him; I haven't met her yet."

"I'll be on my best behavior," she said.

"Only in public, I hope."

"Only in public. Where are we staying?"

"I have a little flat over the shop, but there's no service, so I think we'll stay at the Connaught, which is just down the street. Also, I don't think I'm quite ready to introduce you to the London staff as… what you are. You'll just be the designer, and they'll think I'm staying in the flat."

"I hear the Connaught is very good."

"I think it will meet your standards. That reminds me, I'd better go and fax them now." He went into the study, switched on his computer, wrote a letter to the manager of the Connaught, and faxed it from the computer. He was on the way back to the bedroom when the house phone rang. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Kinsolving, Detective Duvivier is here to see you," the lobby man said.

Oh, no, Sandy groaned to himself. It had been so long since he had heard from the detective, he thought he had been forgotten. "Ask him to wait ten minutes, then send him up."

"Yes sir."

Sandy hung up the phone and went to the bedroom. "I'm going to lock you in here for a few minutes, and I don't want you to suddenly appear naked in the living room," he said, "though ordinarily I wouldn't mind."

"What's up?"

"A visitor, and I can't brush him off."

She picked up the paper. "I'll be quiet as a mouse."

"Good." He went to his dressing room and got into some casual clothes, and he was waiting for Duvivier at the elevator when it arrived.

"I'm very sorry to disturb you on a Saturday," the detective said.

"That's quite all right," Sandy replied. "Please come into the study." Shortly they were settled. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Thank you, no," Duvivier said, sitting on the edge of the sofa.

"What's up, then?"

"I wanted you to know right away that we've made an arrest in the matter of your wife's murder."

Sandy froze for just a moment before he could bring himself to speak. "I'm glad to hear it; who is he?"

"His name is Thomas Wills," Duvivier said.

Sandy sat up straight. "You mean our building's janitor?"

"That's correct."

"That's impossible; Thomas wouldn't harm a fly, let alone an occupant of this building."

"Actually, he has a record of violent crime," Duvivier said.

"I don't believe it. I told you at our first meeting that every employee of this building has his background checked."

"His conviction wouldn't have showed up, unless he had been fingerprinted," Duvivier said. "You see, he has been living for some years under an assumed identity. His real name is Morris Wilkes."

Sandy slumped. "How long ago did this criminal activity take place?"

"Nearly twenty years ago. Wills served seven years for voluntary manslaughter."

"What does that mean?"

"He killed another man in a barroom brawl, was charged with murder, then pled to manslaughter for a reduced sentence. Some time after his release, he changed his name, picked up a new social security number and driver's license, and got a job in your building."

Sandy shook his head. "I'm sorry, I just don't buy it. Where is he being held?"

"At the Nineteenth Precinct, at the moment."

"What evidence do you have?"

Duvivier counted off on his fingers. "First, motive-money; he knew about the jewelry in the safe; second, opportunity-he had complete access to the scene, had his own keys; third, physical evidence-his fingerprints on the doorjamb of the storage room and on several places in the room. Finally, no alibi."

"If you had all that, why didn't you arrest him immediately?"

"We didn't know about his background. All the interviews we conducted agreed with your assessment of the man, but then we got a tip from a good source about his real identity."

"Is there anything else you have to tell me about this?" Sandy asked.

"No, sir."

"Then I'll have to ask you to excuse me, detective; I have some work to do."

"Of course."

Sandy walked him to the door, shook his hand and put him into the elevator. Then he went straight to his study, got his phone book and called his lawyer.

"Jim Barwick," a sleepy voice said.

"Jim, it's Sandy Kinsolving; I'm sorry to disturb you on a Saturday."

"That's all right, Sandy; if it's about your sales agreement, Sam Warren expects to have it on Monday morning. I've already read the fax, and it looks good to me."

"No, it's something else. An employee of our co-op, whose name is Thomas Wills, has been arrested for the murder of my wife."

"Excellent!" Barwick said. "I'm delighted to hear it."

"No, it's not excellent; he didn't do it."

"You know that for a fact?"

"No, not exactly," Sandy said, "but if you knew the man, you'd know he couldn't possibly have done it. He's one of our most trusted employees in the building."

"Sandy, the police know what they're doing," the lawyer said. "They don't arrest people for murder precipitously."

"Of course they do, Jim; they do it all the time."

"All right, Sandy, what can I do to help?"

"I know you don't handle criminal cases, Jim, but I expect you know somebody who does, and I want you to get the man a lawyer. Send the bills to me."

"How much do you want to spend?"

"I want him to have excellent representation; it doesn't have to be F. Lee Bailey."

"I know a young guy, Murray Hirsch."

"Is he very good?"

"He is; he used to be an assistant district attorney. He's only been in private practice for around five years, but he's very smart, and I think he'd do a good job."

"Fine."

"Do you know where-what's his name?"

"Not from somebody like Jock. You always knew exactly what you wanted to do. You resisted the idea of joining the compa-

Thomas Wills. The police told me he assumed that name after serving time for voluntary manslaughter many years ago. His real name is, apparently, Morris Wilkes. He's at the Nineteenth Precinct, but I don't know which name he's being held under."

I'll get right on it, Sandy."

Sandy said good-bye and hung up. He walked slowly back into the bedroom, where Cara was buried in the Times.

She looked up at him. "What's wrong? You look awful."

He sank onto the bed. "They've arrested one of the building's employees for Joan's murder," he said.

"That's wonderful!" she exclaimed.

"No," he said, "it's not wonderful."