“I know, I’m just awful. But I was only joking.”
Alice knew in her gut what the relationship was between Christie Kinley’s sister and all of the questions she had been carrying around the last week. But that didn’t stop her from asking the validating question.
“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Withers, what does Mia look like?”
“Well, she’s a lovely girl. It makes her penchant for these lowlife men all the more perplexing! She’d never bring home a nice guy like this one. But what does she look like? She’s slender, you know. Very fit. One of those girls who carries herself well. And she has the most amazing red hair. Delicate features. Sort of a honey-and-strawberries kind of complexion. You know what, dear? I know this will sound like babble from an old woman, but if I had to say, Mia looks a bit like you if it weren’t for that dark hair of yours.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
T hey were back at their motel outside White Plains, strategizing their next move.
“I know you’re the one who’s an FBI agent, but don’t we have enough evidence to go to Shannon and Danes? I ran from my apartment because I knew I was in over my head. But with what we know now? I’m willing to go back to the city. I’ll turn myself in if that’s what it takes to make them investigate Mia.”
“You can do that, but once you turn yourself in on the warrant, no one will be in a rush to exonerate you. You’ll probably get slapped with a no-bail hold on the murder charge. The police will have passed the case on to the DA’s office, so it will be clear as far as they’re concerned. And the prosecutors will keep setting over your trial date until a judge forces them to fish or cut bait. It would be better to get them to drop the charges up front.”
“You’re a federal agent. Can’t you just tell them what to do?”
He shook his head. “If only I could. Federal and state governments are separate sovereigns. Put it this way: the last time I talked to John Shannon, he basically called me a burnout and a loser. I can call them with this tip about Mia, but trust me: they’re not going to listen.”
“How can they ignore it? If we’re right, Mia Andrews is my half sister.” She cringed at the thought. “My guess is she had no idea that Christie was actually her mother, until Christie died. Maybe she found the settlement documents or something else that made her realize her sister was actually her biological mother. She has every reason to hate me and my father.”
“Mrs. Withers did say she had a weak spot for dirtbags, which pretty much sums up Travis Larson.”
“She has to be the woman kissing Larson in that picture. Plus she’s a photographer. That can’t be a coincidence. If she got part of the settlement money when her mother died, she might have been in a position to front the Highline Gallery operation. Like I said before: three birds, one stone. She makes money off the sale of the so-called artwork. She frames me. And she gets the pictures from my father’s office in front of the police without ever having to name her mother as the girl depicted in them.”
Hank had run Mia Andrews and learned that Mrs. Withers had not been exaggerating when she’d described the young woman as troubled. Two drug busts. A stop by police officers who suspected her of prostitution. The use of a false name and identification on the second drug arrest. According to Hank, she was precisely the kind of woman who might have crossed paths with Travis Larson.
“That’s one version of the facts. But John Shannon and Willie Danes have spent the last week convincing themselves that you killed Larson and were the mastermind behind those thumb drive sales from the gallery. To them? Mia’s existence will just be another motive for you to act out against your father and try to prove you could be independent. I’m sure the way they look at it, your slipping those pictures of your dad into those thumb drives was some Freudian act of revenge.”
“Even the suggestion that I would peddle obscenity involving my own father-”
“I hate to say it, Alice, but I’ve seen people do much sicker things. And so have Shannon and Danes. All I’m saying is that the NYPD isn’t necessarily going to shift their entire theory based on what we have so far. But that’s not an absolute deal breaker. We just need them to be sufficiently intrigued to follow up on it. To be open-minded. But if I’m the one to call them, it’s not going to happen.”
Alice found herself thinking about the words her father had used to persuade her to call Arthur Cronin for help. He had quoted Malcolm Gladwell-something about “practical intelligence,” “an ability to read a situation. To know what to say and how and when to say it.”
“I know we can’t call my friends, but what about my lawyer?”
“Is this your boyfriend, Jeff? I guarantee you they’re pulling his LUDs.”
She didn’t feel the need to articulate the complications that made the word
“They wouldn’t have the balls to monitor his phone.”
“Then that’s who I think we should call.”
“Alice. Where are you? I’ve been trying to cover for you with the police, but what the hell is going on?” Based on his secretary’s urgency in transferring the call, Alice could tell Art had been waiting to hear from her.
“My friend Lily warned me the police were coming. I just couldn’t let them take me. You know that I’m innocent.”
“You don’t look innocent to them right now. We need to negotiate your turning yourself in. Their case is probably shit.”
“How are Mom and Dad holding up?” She wished she could make herself not care about her father. He was the one who’d created this predicament. But even though she knew he was a cheat and a liar, she had to believe that he had beaten whatever part of him had been with Christie Kinley that night when he had finally stopped drinking.
“I’ve got a public relations firm putting together a damage-control campaign about these old photographs, but he’s more worried about you.”
She noticed he was not denying that the man in the pictures was her father.
“I know about Christie Kinley, Art. I know she wasn’t a former employee. That lawsuit had nothing to do with plagiarism.”
“I’m sorry, Alice. I was the one who told your father I could get this mess straightened out without having to rehash these ugly details.”
“A fourteen-year-old girl accused my father of
“It wasn’t
“I don’t want to hear any of that right now.”
“We should have been up-front with you, but your father wants to rectify it. He was absolutely convinced that the church protesting the gallery was behind this. He has given me a full waiver to discuss these matters not only with you but with the police or anyone else, if doing so would finally get you out of this jam. He’s willing to let the chips fall as they may.”
“Did you two know that Christie Kinley had a child nine months after that night in Bedford?”
“What? Where did you hear that?”
“Did you know or not?”
“Of course not! That was never an issue in the settlement. No one ever made such an allegation.”
She explained the timing of Gloria’s supposed pregnancy while Christie was sent away to boarding school. “It would explain why a red-haired woman who looks like me was spotted with Travis Larson. Can you please call the detectives and convince them they need to talk to this woman? Her name is Mia Louise Andrews. If they can prove a connection between her and Larson, that should be enough to convince them I was set up.”
“The only thing those detectives want to hear from me right now is that I can bring you in on the warrant.”
“Tell them I’ll turn myself in if they interview Mia.”
“The NYPD doesn’t usually take well to blackmail.”
“With your talents, Art, I’m sure you can get them to see it as a fair compromise.”
“I suppose if they arrested you without following up on this angle, someone like me might use it to excoriate them in the media. A rush to judgment. Shoddy investigation tactics.”
“See? I knew you’d come up with something.”
“All right. Let me give these schmucks a call and see what I can do. Where do I call you back?”
