elevator, hoping it wasn’t the last time she’d see him.
And hoping that he didn’t tell Linette.
“I told you! I
“Calm yourself, Carrier,” Bennie said. Now that they were alone in the conference room, she reached into her purse, pulled out the knife, and set it on the table. “This is your homework.”
“What?” Carrier asked, and Bennie explained where and how she’d gotten the knife, while the associate picked it up and examined the blade, teasing it with a fingerpad. “This is sharp.”
“Yep. Sharp enough.”
“What do you want me to do, boss?”
“Go down to the medical examiner’s office. Tell him who you are and show him that knife. See if it could have been the type used to kill Robert.”
Murphy edged her tiny knit butt onto the conference table. “Shouldn’t we also get a copy of the autopsy report? I bet we can finagle it. I have friends in the DA’s office.”
“It may not be ready yet,” Bennie answered, “but that’s a good idea. If it’s ready, get a copy. Make noises that it’s public record, even though I’m not sure that it is, and maybe they’ll cough it up.”
“You think Linette did it? Himself, even?” Murphy asked.
“I just want to follow up,” Bennie answered, and Carrier was listening thoughtfully.
“Even if it isn’t the same knife, it doesn’t eliminate Linette as a suspect, or Mayer for that matter. He could have used another knife. Lots of people carry penknives, and they’re way easier to get than guns.”
Murphy snorted. “Guns aren’t that hard to get, either.”
Bennie looked at her. “You have homework too, kid. You up?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t I be? What do you have?”
“First thing, you have some experience with restraining orders, I know.” Bennie felt a guilty twinge, but she needed help. “I hate to remind you of it, but I need to call upon it. Draft a brief for me against Alice, and tell me what I have to do to get an order. Put in all the facts, from the wallet to the break-in to the diamonds. It may not be foolproof, but it doesn’t hurt to have one in place.”
“Done.”
“Thanks. Second, you heard Abrams say that Linette told him he was going back to work after dinner. I want that checked out. You know where Linette’s offices are, in that tall gray building. There’s got to be a security desk in the lobby, where tenants sign in and out. I’m wondering when Linette signed in and out last night.”
“You mean like a sign-in log? It’s not superreliable.”
“No, but it’s a start. Think you can get the guard to show it to you?”
“In this dress? You have to ask?” Murphy smiled broadly, for the first time today. “Where are you going, Bennie?”
She checked her watch. She hoped David was waiting out there, ready to go. She’d tell him about Linette on the cell, and she wasn’t completely surprised to find herself looking forward to the call.
“Someplace sad,” Bennie answered after a moment. “But necessary.”
26
Situated at the southwestern corner of Rittenhouse Square, the lovely block-square Victorian garden designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, the Manchester was the most exclusive address in Philadelphia. Still, Bennie got no charge stepping into an elevator plusher than her living room, if only slightly smaller, and letting it carry her noiselessly upward. The elevator doors slid open on the penthouse floor, and Bennie found herself not in the hallway she had expected, but smack at the entrance to a large, well-appointed living room filled with people holding wineglasses and hors d’oeuvres on toothpicks, talking in small groups, their cadences more South of France than South Philly.
“Excuse me, I’m Micheline St. Amien,” said a young, beautiful blonde, gliding from the crowd in a black tweed suit that had little flares at the cuffs, a flared skirt to match, and a cinched-in waist so narrow it made Bennie’s suit look like the Hindenburg. The C on its shiny black buttons announced that the suit was Chanel, but it could just have easily stood for Cash. Oddly, she didn’t have a French manicure. Bennie would have to tell Murphy that the French manicure thing was a sham. The French had American manicures.
“Hello,” Bennie responded, extending a hand and introducing herself. “I’m, I
“Thank you for your kind words, and for coming.” Micheline’s French accent was just light enough to register as cultured. Bennie had never known there were so many French people living in Philly. Micheline smiled pleasantly at her, though there wasn’t a laugh line marring her lovely cheekbones. She couldn’t have been thirty years old. “I understand Robert liked you very much.”
“I hope so,” Bennie said, for lack of something better. She didn’t feel completely comfortable around the woman. Her manner was cool, and she didn’t seem all that broken up by Robert’s death. Bennie glanced around, and nobody here did. It didn’t make sense. Robert was a nice man. “Are these employees of St. Amien amp; Fils?”
“No, these are our friends. Let me take you to Georges. He’s in his study. He’s not feeling well, and he’s not exactly mobile of late.” Micheline turned on her stilettos and sashayed down the hallway to the right, rolling her slim hips like a runway model.
“Thank you.” Bennie lumbered, feeling roughly like Gentle Ben, in Ann Taylor. The walls were covered with tasteful tan fabric, and the corridor was lined with antique prints of the Seine, which the St. Amiens evidently found more beautiful than the Schuylkill, difficult as that was to comprehend.
“Here is his study,” Micheline said when they reached the paneled door at the end of the hall, and she opened it. “I’ll leave you two alone and attend our guests. I know you have a lot to discuss.”
“Thanks,” Bennie said, as Micheline closed the door behind her. Inside was a cozy, book-lined study containing a built-in walnut desk with drawers, a cushy brown leather chair with an ottoman, and a maroon glass ashtray on a brass stand next to it. The air smelled like the stale smoke of French cigarettes. In the center of the study sat a man in a wheelchair. His back was to the door and he appeared to be looking out the window, but when he spun around in the chair, Bennie almost gasped. Georges looked like an older version of Robert, with the same sleek silver hair, same bright blue eyes behind stainless-steel glasses, but with a full brushy beard, dark brown but laced with silver. Behind the beard, his lips tilted down into a frown, and his bushy eyebrows showed the same sad slope.
“You must be Bennie,” Georges said with dignity, and he wheeled over a few inches with his left hand, more a gesture than anything else. His right leg lay completely flat on a metal support, encased in a graying cast, and he extended his right hand over it to shake hers.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Bennie grasped his fine fingers warmly, blinking back the wetness in her eyes, which had been provoked by his voice, so like his brother’s.
“Thank you very much,” Georges said, and when he released her hand, the chair strayed to the left. “Please excuse this wheelchair business. I’m not very good with it, I fear I never became accustomed. Please, sit.” He motioned her onto the leather ottoman, and she sat. “I broke my leg several weeks ago, like a fool.”
“That must have hurt,” Bennie said, glad of something else to talk about. She couldn’t imagine the pain he must be feeling, sitting alone in the room, wheelchair-bound. If misery loves company, Georges didn’t have any. She would stay awhile. “How did you do it?”
“Riding. My horse has a bit of spirit, he forgets he is gelded. Comes the spring, he gets crazy, he believes he is a stallion. Many men do, you know.” Georges winked, and Bennie smiled.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Touche.” He laughed, just like Robert. “My warmblood, Gustave, he is a very pampered, very civilized dressage horse. He thinks he is beautiful-
