Crash Into Me - L.A. Fiore Page 0,5
someone was truly ready to end it, they had no hesitation. Almost like they were already gone and were just tying up the loose ends.
“And do you have theories on who killed her?” Zac was encouraging him. It was his way; he liked puzzles as much as me, but sometimes, it was best not to feed the delusion. To say Frank was mildly obsessed with Katrina Dent was fair since I was pretty sure all the boxes around the room were related to her case. He might not be playing with a full deck.
At Zac’s question, Frank closed up. Like he didn’t want to get scooped on his own story. “Nothing concrete.”
Like hell. He probably had at least ten running theories, likely a crime board for each of them, but Katrina’s death had nothing to do with Samantha James. We were done here. I touched Zac’s arm. “You ready?”
“Yeah.” He reached for his card and handed it to Frank. “You think of anything else about Samantha, call me.”
Frank moved back to his desk, sat down. “Yeah, okay.”
We stopped at Emily’s to confirm his alibi, but she wasn’t home. I waited until we were outside on the curb before I said, “You didn’t need to encourage him.”
“I know, but I couldn’t help it. We’ve got detectives on the force who don’t put that much effort into active cases, and he’s still digging on a closed case that’s over three decades old. Obsessed much.”
“I’ll confirm his alibi with Emily, but he was holding back.”
“Yeah, he was. We need to talk to Samantha’s parents.”
“Alright, I’ll schedule some time with them. What’s next?”
Zac got that look, the one that meant he was going to stir shit up. “I say we go to the top, work our way down.”
I just knew he was going to say that. “We need to tread lightly,” I warned.
“We’re just asking him a few questions.”
“Alright, let’s warn Cap,” I said, reaching for the door of Zac’s car. “You know how he gets about getting calls from the commissioner.”
“Yeah, yeah. Call him, let him know we’re paying Sinclair Rothschild a visit.”
Zac hadn’t drunk the Kool-Aid when it came to Sinclair Rothschild. Despite the man’s good deeds, Zac didn’t like him. A man with his wealth, Zac argued, tended to think he was above the law. He wasn’t wrong, but Sinclair Rothschild’s altruistic ways had helped so many in the city. Whatever Zac thought of him, the man did good things. That wasn’t debatable.
He walked around his car and tapped the roof. “One thing you gotta acknowledge. This job is never boring.”
He could say that again.
It blew my mind the wealth of some. Sinclair Rothschild was a billionaire, many times over. Walking through his Brownstone, one of many properties he owned, the display of wealth was overwhelming…decadent.
His butler showed us into a room that had oak walls and a highly polished wood floor, covered, in parts, by rugs that I was sure cost more than I made in a year. A fire, warming the cool spring morning, was burning in the fireplace that was big enough for a man to stand upright in. Old paintings in thick gold frames hung from the walls and windows that went from floor to ceiling were draped with dark green silk.
Sinclair sat behind a desk that looked like an antique. His white hair was a little long, and he was dressed in a smoking jacket and pants. As he walked from around his desk, my eyes traveled to the black loafers he wore with a gold emblem stitched on the top. Rings of platinum and gemstones sat on a few of his fingers. When he smiled, though, it reached his eyes, which was unusual because most people we interviewed weren’t happy to see us.
“To what do I owe this visit from New York’s finest?” he said, gesturing to the chairs around the fireplace. “Can I get you coffee?”
“No, thanks,” I said, taking the seat closest to the door.
“Do you know Samantha James?” Zac asked, not bothering to sit.
Sinclair didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “I’m going to have coffee. Joshua,” he called. The man had been standing right at the door because he appeared like magic. “Coffee and pastries, please.”
“Very good, Sir.”
He looked back at Zac. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”
“Samantha James. Do you know her?”
“I can’t say that I do.”
“She was at your reception last night,” Zac added.
Sinclair brushed unseen lint from his pants. “Half of Manhattan was at my reception, Detective.” His eyes lifted to