Quinn thought there were a lot of I’s in that answer. “And what was that explanation?”
“I’m in love with another woman. We’re going to be married.” Gainer sighed and looked at a blank wall as if there were a window in it and he was gazing outside. There was a lot of light, but it was artificial. There were no windows in what had to be the conference room. “You can see the company’s position. At least I could.”
“Hell hath no fury…?”
“Exactly.”
“You might have told her the truth,” Quinn said, “given her a chance to react. She might have surprised you and wished you well.”
Gainer smiled sadly. “That would have been a surprise, all right.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That the company was letting her go for economic reasons. That it was a board decision and had nothing to do with her competency.”
“How did she react?”
“By calling me a sack of shit.” He breathed in and out and looked ashamed. “Maybe she’s right.”
“And then you told her you and she were over?”
“No. She naturally assumed that. I mean, after I told her I was firing her. She thought I was cutting her loose from the company because I wanted to end our affair finally and forever. I don’t recall which of us, or either of us, came right out and said it was over. But believe me, it was understood.”
“And this conversation was when?”
“Three nights ago.”
“And that was the last time you saw her alive?”
“Or dead,” Gainer said.
“Where were you last night?”
“When Ann was killed? I was with the woman I’m going to marry. I have restaurant receipts. After we had dinner, we went with friends to the theater. I even happened to run into a man I went to school with. During intermission.”
“You seem to be covered for every minute.”
“Like it was planned?”
Quinn smiled. “Don’t get ahead of me, Mr. Gainer.”
“I mean, I could have paid somebody to kill Ann, and made sure I had an alibi. But I had no reason to harm her. She was gone from here, gone from my life.” He wiped away what might have been a tear. “To tell you the truth, I miss her. We were lovers. We were also good friends.”
“Friends or not, the company couldn’t take the chance.”
“No. We couldn’t even let her come back for her things. Had them delivered to her.” He looked beseechingly at Quinn. “You don’t know how fiercely competitive this business is. You have to be a hard-ass just to survive.”
“Like my business,” Quinn said.
“Yeah. From what I’ve heard.”
Quinn stood up. “Anything to add?”
“I don’t know what it would be.”
“Maybe a confession.”
Gainer sat back as if struck by a blow. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I’m trying to be cooperative. I didn’t do anything. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Gainer wiped at his eyes again. “Go ahead and check my alibi.”
“We will.” Quinn saw the fear in Gainer’s expression, along with the hope. This guy should never play poker. “I know what you think, Mr. Gainer, that maybe you should have lawyered up and gone mute. That you handled this meeting wrong. But you didn’t. Not if you told the truth.”
“Do you think I killed Ann? Or hired someone to kill her?”
“No,” Quinn said. “Right now, I don’t.”
“Thank you,” Gainer said.
Quinn went to the door. “But that’s right now.”
23
S ince it was the last door, they were together.
In Ann Spellman’s apartment building, Sal and Harold had knocked on all the doors but this one, 6-F. It didn’t promise to open on any new or pertinent knowledge of Spellman’s murder.
The slot in the mailbox down in the foyer had simply said A. Ackenheimer. The woman who opened the door said nothing. She simply stood and stared at them through rheumy, faded blue eyes. Her mousy brown hair was a mess, as was the baggy flannel nightgown or robe she wore even though it was four o’clock in the afternoon.
A close look at her suggested she was in her forties, but she was like a woman trying to appear older. An even closer look revealed a certain glint in her eye. Harold thought that if she really got it together, with makeup and a hairdo, she might be attractive. No, probably not.
Sal leaned toward her slightly, sniffing for alcohol. Found something like smoked salmon. It could have been fish for lunch, but she looked as if she could be high on some other substance. He smelled nothing potentially incriminating.
“Miz Ackenheimer?” Harold said, as if attempting to wake her.
“Right on the first try,” she said in a throaty, fishy voice.
“A for Alice?” Harold said.
She smiled widely. “Amazing.”
Harold grinned beneath his bushy mustache and shrugged. “I’m kind of psychic sometimes, Audrey.”
She shook her head. “You, too? Amazing. Some people call me Amazing Ackenheimer. My given name is actually Audrey, but I’ve used the name Alice.”
“Are you in show business?” Harold asked.
Sal had had about enough of this. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Ann Spellman’s murder,” he told her in his rasp of a voice that was even deeper than hers.
“It sounds like you might juggle or something,” Harold said, “with a name like that.”
Sal glowered. Harold was being Harold here, with the last potential witness. It irked Sal.
“No,” Audrey Ackenheimer said. “I’m not in show business, though I can juggle. And I know nothing about Ann Spellman’s murder. She’s not-wasn’t-even on this floor. And wasn’t she killed someplace else altogether?”
“Not necessarily altogether,” Sal said. “Her apartment, her neighbors, might have something useful to tell us.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Audrey Ackenheimer said.
“Did you know her at all?”
“Only to nod to on the elevator about every two weeks.” Suddenly she paused and looked off to the side.
“Something?” Sal asked.
“I was just remembering… last week I accidentally pushed the wrong button in the elevator and the door opened on her floor. Ann Spellman’s. Well, there’s a straight look down the hall to her apartment, and I saw a woman standing in front of Spellman’s door. Then I looked again and she wasn’t there. I suppose Ann Spellman let the woman in.”
“This was when?
“Wednesday, I think.”
“The day before Spellman’s murder.”
“Evening before,” Audrey said. “About seven o’clock. I was on my way to meet someone for dinner.”
“Could you describe the woman?”
