A Good Marriage(85)
Lizzie
JULY 10, FRIDAY
The building that housed Millie’s company, Evidentiary Analytics, was tall and wrapped in mirrored glass like so many others in that stretch of Midtown East, north of the UN. The vast lobby was floor-to-ceiling marble with three different reception desks, the two most imposing reserved for Sony and Credit Suisse. The third, smaller desk was the catch-all for the remaining tenants. Millie had mentioned that she’d expanded her company into a partnership with a forensic expert. But this was already more impressive than I’d expected, which was encouraging. And after that meeting with Wendy Wallace, I was badly in need of encouragement.
On the thirty-sixth floor, I made my way down a long, fancy hallway—expensive-looking textured wallpaper, exceptionally clean carpets—and rang the bell under the polished sign for Evidentiary Analytics. A second later Millie, in a sensible if not exactly fashionable navy-blue suit, opened the door. Under the glare of the office lights, her skin had a distinct grayish tinge.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said, reaching forward and pulling me into a hug.
This time, hugging Millie was like squeezing a pile of twigs. “Okay, why are you so thin?”
“Why, thank you, dear,” she said cheerfully, though it was obvious I hadn’t meant it as a compliment. She waved me inside. “Come on, come on. We’ve got some good stuff for you here. Real good.”
I’d called Millie right after I’d left Wendy Wallace’s office. I told her that Zach had been indicted and that I urgently needed some actual proof that someone else had been at the scene. This was all true, though I’d notably left out that the real urgency was that I was being blackmailed by my client. I was too ashamed. Also, Millie wouldn’t believe in caving to Zach’s demands, and I couldn’t risk her refusing to help because of it. Finding a new investigator would just mean more time on Zach’s case.
Inside the sleek, open-plan Evidentiary Analytics office, there was a small man with a thick, dark mustache and a mane of jet-black hair standing alongside the reception desk. Behind him a petite blond, curly-haired receptionist sat answering the phone. The man had droopy but kind eyes, which I tried to focus on instead of his hair, which was so unnatural in its blackness that it had to be a wig, a very bad one. Given how nice the office was, it seemed strange he hadn’t considered an upgrade.
“This is my partner, Vinnie,” Millie said. “Vinnie, this is Lizzie. She’s an old friend, so be friendly. It isn’t easy for Vinnie. Forensic guys aren’t known for their people skills.”
The droopy-eyed man scowled at Millie, then advanced toward me with an outstretched hand. His grip was surprisingly soft and puffy, like he was wearing a mitten.
“Lizzie Kitsakis,” I said. “Thank you so much for your help.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll cost you.” If this was meant as a joke, it wasn’t accompanied by even a hint of a smile.
Millie motioned to a low black leather and walnut seating area in the far corner. “Come, sit.”
“This is so nice,” I said as we made our way across the room.
There were huge windows on one side, with decent peek-a-boo views of the East River. The half-dozen desks, artfully arranged, were occupied only by men, presumably other investigators, all but one talking on the phone. At the back there were three large private offices, glass-fronted, but each with a door.
“We’re making a decent go of it here,” Millie said, looking around with a satisfied nod as we sat on the couches. “Don’t have an actual lab of our own yet, so we have to outsource the testing—print analyses, blood typing. But someday, I’m hoping. Vinnie makes the initial strategic assessment, figures out the right tests, the approach, while I run down witnesses and other investigative leads. Vinnie also has the connections at the medical examiner’s office.”
“Yeah, Vinnie has the connections,” he grumbled, taking a seat on the couch farthest away. “And he likes to get paid for using them.”
“Vinnie,” Millie snapped. “Stop with the money. She’s going to pay, for Christ’s sake.”
“She’d better.”
Millie rolled her eyes. “I explained to him that we couldn’t wait for a retainer, given that time is of the essence and your client is locked up at Rikers.” She shot a scathing look Vinnie’s way and then turned back to me. “We got burned a couple times when we first started. In Vinnie’s defense, it was on my say-so each time.”
“I can get Zach’s accountant to wire money today,” I said, turning to Vinnie. “I need to call him, anyway.”
He nodded, though he looked unconvinced. “Well, from what I hear from my contacts at the ME, this is a blood case, no doubt.”
“That could be good news, right?” I asked tentatively. “At least they’re planning to rely on actual evidence. And blood evidence has got to be more reliable than eyewitnesses, or something, right?”
I was wading into unfamiliar waters now. Fraud cases were data and document cases. They didn’t involve blood, sometimes not even eyewitnesses. They were all about numbers, emails, invoices, and accounting ledgers. Over the years, I’d intentionally avoided learning much about violent crime scene forensics. But here I was. No more looking away. I’d have no choice but to suck it up and educate myself.