placement of her feet onto the ground. Her shoes had heels, but they were three inches max-modest as far as those things went for women these days. The way she stepped-flat-footed, cautious, in tiny baby steps-reminded him of Ellen practicing in her first pair of Manolo Blahniks, or whatever those things were called.
This was not the walk of the woman outside Larson’s apartment. What had initially caught his attention had been that walk-that catlike prance up the street, eyes ahead, back straight, chest forward, nearly marching in those black stiletto pumps. It had been nearly two years since that film premiere. Maybe practice had made perfect for the once hesitant Miss Humphrey.
But maybe not.
He picked up the phone and asked for Detective Willie Danes.
“I hate to bother you, Detective, but I may have been a little too quick to call the ID on Alice Humphrey.” He explained the discrepancy between the woman he’d seen and the videotape of Humphrey on YouTube.
“You’re saying you saw Travis Larson with a knockout beauty of a redhead at his apartment, wearing a stunning peacock blue coat. And then his body gets found by, lo and behold, a knockout beauty of a redhead in the very same peacock blue coat, but it’s not the same woman? And you’re basing this on a pair of shoes the girl wore two years ago?”
“I’m not saying it’s a different woman. All I’m saying is I can’t be a hundred percent sure that it’s the
“Well, it’s a good thing the NYPD doesn’t operate on the same definition of a hundred percent as the FBI.”
It wasn’t the first time Hank had been ribbed by a local cop about the federal government having the luxury of demanding more evidence, and it wouldn’t be the last.
“Can you just be sure and check out Humphrey’s shoes? It’s not every woman out there who can pull off the monsters Larson’s girl was wearing.”
“Do I look like Prince Charming? Chasing down Cinderella with the glass slipper? Tell you what, Beckman: we don’t even need your ID at this point, so don’t worry your head about it, all right?”
“Well, you can’t have that much. I see you haven’t made an arrest yet.”
“I don’t know you, Beckman, so I don’t know how to say this to you, but your sister’s dead. You couldn’t save her, and the asshole you blamed for that is dead now, too. See a shrink or find something else to obsess about. I don’t really care, but your involvement in this case is over.”
The click on the other end of the line was like a punch in the throat.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I t was Alice’s second trip to the Upper East Side, and the weekend wasn’t even over. This time her mother answered the door herself, greeting her with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Hey, Mom. I thought you were in Bedford.”
“Well, I was, but Arthur has a table tonight at some fund-raiser for one civil right or another. I thought it would be a good excuse to put on a fancy gown and eat dessert.”
“Dad’s going with you?” She had called in advance to make sure he had returned from yesterday’s location- scouting trip to Miami.
“I’m afraid not. He’s packing a bag now to head out to Los Angeles. I told Arthur I’d be representing the family tonight. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve already had a little martini to get me started. Would you like one?”
“No, thanks.” Based on her mother’s tolerance and extraordinary chipperness, Alice suspected she’d had more than one warm-up drink. She’d always found it strange that her mother continued an open affair with alcohol despite her husband’s decision twenty-five years earlier to go dry, but there was no shortage of things she did not understand about her parents’ marriage.
“How are things at the gallery?” Her mother looked at her watch. “Shouldn’t you be there?”
“It’s taken care of for now.”
She felt guilty for not telling her what was happening, but Alice’s mother had spent her entire life sending out signals that she did not want to be troubled by disturbing news. Maybe in a different marriage, with different hardships, she would have developed into a more complex woman. Certainly the promising actress who had won an Academy Award for her depiction of a promiscuous young widow had shown early signs of emotional depth. But at some point in her life, Rose Sampson Humphrey had accepted a permanent role as happy Hollywood wife, standing quietly and supportively by her talented husband and perfect children, always grateful for the family’s good fortune.
Even when Ben was turning into a full-out junkie, she’d allow herself to be convinced that he was plagued by migraines, anxiety disorders, chronic fatigue, any explanation for his weight loss, erratic behavior, and sickly pallor. Rose Sampson was not, as she liked to say, in the stress business.
“All right. It’s nice to know I’ve got one child I don’t need to worry about for the time being.”
“Ben?”
“He didn’t show up for your opening last week. He told me he’d come up to the country for the weekend, but- well, he’s probably busy. Have you seen him?”
“I was at his apartment last night.” She’d been trying him all morning, but her calls were still going directly to voice mail.
“Did he seem okay? Everything’s all right?”
“I only saw him for a few minutes, but, yeah-he was-he was Ben.” Go ahead, Mom. Ask the follow-up question. Push me for more information. Because you know. You know, Mom. You know he’s still got a problem, the way you know you smell like vodka and have glassy eyes at eleven in the morning.
“Well, that’s good to hear. To what do I owe this pleasure, by the way?”
“I need to talk to Dad about something.”
“That’s even nicer to hear. Maybe the two of you will be back to normal soon.” Her chipper smile fell when Alice didn’t respond. “Don’t be so hard on your father, Alice. There are very few people in this world who have the power to hurt that man, and you’re one of them. I haven’t been a perfect wife, if that makes a difference.”
She didn’t want to hear her mother make excuses for his affairs. She didn’t care about his sins as a father or a husband anymore. She just needed answers.
“Mom, you don’t know anything about Dad somehow backing the gallery, do you?”
Her lips formed a small O. “Sweetie, I know your father gave you a hard time about wanting to do things on your own, but really-I think you’re letting your imagination get the better of you.”
“Did you have a chance to ask him about the ITH Corporation?”
She was here to ask her father about the company directly, but it wouldn’t hurt to know what he might have said to her mother.
Her mother snapped her fingers and pointed at her. “That’s
She made her way to the coat closet near the front door and pulled out a canvas tote bag. “I found this.”
Alice removed a file folder from the bag and flipped through its pages. She was no lawyer, but she could tell the document was an agreement between ITH Corporation and someone named Julie Kinley. ITH agreed to place all of its existing assets into a trust for the benefit of Julie Kinley. In exchange, Kinley agreed to release all potential legal claims against ITH and its agents, officers, and employees, both in their official and personal capacities. Alice wasn’t entirely clear about that part, but she assumed it was a settlement agreement of some kind. The final paragraph of the document was a clause requiring confidentiality from both Kinley and ITH about the agreement.
“Is that what you were looking for?”
“I think so. Thanks. Do you know what ITH was for?”
“Your father has created a few different corporations over the years, hon. You know, for the film funding and what not. What’s this all about?”
“Nothing, Mom. I’ll talk to him about it. Have fun at your event tonight.”
