print. That could cost him next time.”
I snuggled deeply in the plush upholstery of the armchair.
“God, I miss this chair" I said. "I’m going to bring it to my apartment soon. I hate the crap I have in there now.”
“Will you be staying here, in New York, then?” he asked.
I sighed. “I don’t know. I thought so, but now….It’s hard to say.”
I pulled out my phone and scrolled down until I found a list of people.
“So, here’s a list of people in the writing group. Should we go through the names and see what we come up with?”
“Do you really think it’s one of them?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Why not?” I asked.
“Well, I’m certain that you could probably find motive for one or two people to want to kill Neville in that group, but the issue is, who would want to implicate you as the killer? If you can find one person with the motive for both of those things, then you hit the jackpot.” He looked at me. “Does someone in the group have both of those motives? Have you made such an enemy in so short a time? Because then it really has nothing to do with your family, and the knife is…a coincidence.”
The silence of the room was broken suddenly by a loud boom followed by a whirring noise. I jumped.
“It’s probably the air conditioning, or maybe the elevator,” he said. We waited.
Eventually the sound stopped and we remained quiet in our respective club chairs. Dad shrugged. “Passed us by, it seems the danger has,” he said.
“We’ll see,” I agreed.
“Now, tell me more about this Neville person. What would make one want to stick a knife in his throat?”
I hesitated, then got up and quietly sidled to the door. In a swift movement, I bent down, grasped the handle and jerked the door overhead, revealing Detective Friday leaning against the jamb, notebook in hand.
“Oh, hi,” he said. “Don’t mind me. Go ahead and tell your father what would make someone want to stick a knife in Neville Carstair’s throat.”
I glared at him. “Can I help you, Detective?”
“You can answer the question,” he said.
“I have no idea. Why don’t you answer it? I think that’s your job, not mine. Right?”
I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Phil’s number.
“Who are you calling?” Friday asked.
“My attorney,” I said.
“Why would you need to do that? We’re just talking here,” he said.
“I’m not talking to you. Do you have a warrant?” I asked.
Phil’s phone stopped ringing, and a helpful female voice told me that the voicemail box had not yet been set up. Who on earth did not have voicemail in this day and age? I thought.
“What is all this stuff?” he said, looking over my shoulder into the unit.
I tried to block his path, adopting a “power pose” with my legs apart and my fists on my hips, but that did not stop him from leaning into the shadows and snapping a photo with his cell phone. I grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it down behind me.
“I’m sorry. Did I not ask you if you had a warrant?” I said.
He looked at his watch.
“On the way,” he said. “Anytime now.”
“Well, let me know when you have it then,” I said.
I pulled up the door, and slipped into the room, quickly closing it off behind me.
“Dad, did you get that?” I hissed.
“Yes,” he said. “Help is on the way, worry not.”
“We don’t have much time,” I said.
“Cassandra, what is there to be concerned about? There’s nothing incriminating in this unit, is there?” he asked.
“Well, no,” I said slowly. “But still, I don’t want anyone going through my stuff. And finding out about, well, you know, my personal life. This is private. How did he find me here, anyway? Were they following us all day? Did you notice anything?”
“No,” he said. “Look, I know how you feel. We’ll have a short window of opportunity to move some of your things, but we can’t move all of them, there’s just not enough time. So whatever you want to move, figure it out fast, and we’ll put it into the other unit down the hall. But be quick…”
“How can we do that? Detective Friday is standing right outside.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Father!”
“Just go and separate what you want to be moved, and be quick about it. When I say go, get ready to move. All right?”
“I still don’t get how he found me….” I grumbled, but I turned and went over to my stacks of boxes. How was I supposed to decide which to move and which to leave? Everything was important, in one sense or another. This was impossible.
“I’m an art history major, not a murderer, for heaven’s sake,” I said aloud.
“Shhhh,” came the response.
Shortly thereafter I heard the whine of the elevator again, some scuffling and then the clatter of the door being raised. Two young men were ushered to the back of the unit by my father, who was flushed and disheveled.
“Which boxes?” he asked. “And I’ll be needing that key I gave you earlier, please.”
“I need all of them, so just start moving. Start here,” I said.
“There’s got to be fifty of them here,” Father said. “They may not all fit. Well, do your best, boys. I’ll get the door open, follow me.”
He grabbed a box and each of the hired hands took two and followed him out. I took one and almost tripped over the legs of Detective Friday, propped by the entrance. He seemed to be out cold.
“Should I ask?” I said when I saw my father on his way back for another box. He shook his head.
Phil arrived with a large moving dolly and soon the boxes were gone.
“Anything else?” he asked me, wiping sweat from his brow with a large white handkerchief.
“Well, if you have time, I’d really like that armoire and the hope chest moved, too,” I said.
He signaled the two lackeys and then spread his hands magnanimously.
