Sweet Little Lies Page 9

  Portia shook her head as she got off the elevator and walked over to her cubicle. She frowned. Her Kleenex box was turned ever so slightly. Just as she was about to turn it back to its original position, her phone rang with an internal call. It was Brad Banks, managing partner.

  “Yes, Mr. Banks?”

  “Portia, can you come down to my office, please?”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Portia placed her purse on the floor underneath her desk and grabbed her steno pad before rushing down the hall to Mr. Banks’ corner office. She saw a man and a woman sitting on the couch.

  The tall, dark-haired, square-jawed, Brad Banks rose from his mahogany desk and gestured to Bill Hanson and Didi Martin.

  “Portia, these are Detectives Hanson and Martin. They’re investigating Mr. Monroe’s death and would like to ask you some questions.”

  Portia nodded, nervous about what they might ask her about Mrs. Monroe. “Of course.”

  The male detective smiled at her. “Good morning, Ms. Walker. Sorry to be bothering you so early in the morning, but we find the first forty-eight hours to be the most critical in an investigation.” He gestured to the seat across from him.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  Portia scurried over and sat down, timid as a mouse, in the overstuffed beige chair. She saw out of the corner of her eye that Brad Banks had perched on the corner of his desk, intending to listen to every word. It gave her a small comfort, knowing he was staying in the room.

  “Ms. Walker, how long did you work for Mark Monroe?”

  “Five years. Ever since I came to work here.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Oh, he was a wonderful man. I couldn’t have asked for a better boss. Very generous. Kind. Highly organized, and he gave excellent direction on projects.”

  Hanson nodded. “How well did you know Mrs. Monroe?”

  Portia hoped the small flicker of hate she felt rise up wasn’t visible. She cleared her throat. “I knew her because of Mr. Monroe, of course. She was very nice. She always gave me very nice gifts.”

  “Did Mr. Monroe make any unusual trips or phone calls?” Didi asked.

  Portia shook her head slightly, a confused look on her face. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  “Ms. Walker, this is a rather delicate matter, but I have to ask. Was Mark Monroe having an affair?” Didi asked.

  Portia gasped. “Oh, goodness no! He just wasn’t that kind of man. He would never, ever do anything like that! I mean he loved his wife very much!”

  Unfortunately for me.

  Hanson pursed his lips together. “So, no strange women calling or strange mail that maybe he wouldn’t want his wife to see?”

  “Well, I didn’t answer all of his calls. He had a direct line, and then there were some people who just called him on his cell phone. And as far as mail…I can’t think of anything strange or inappropriate.”

  Hanson closed his notebook. “Ms. Walker, you’ve been very helpful. Could you show us Mr. Monroe’s office?”

  She nodded and stood. “Certainly.”

  “I just want to remind you that you will not have access to any files pertaining to our clients,” Brad Banks chimed in. “Portia can box up anything personal for you.”

  Hanson flashed a tight smile. “Of course. Just want to have a look around.”

  The group made the short walk down to Mark’s office. Just as Portia reached out to open the door, Hanson held up his hand.

  “Just a moment, Ms. Walker. We’ll want to dust the doorknob for fresh prints.”

  Portia withdrew her hand as though scalding water had been poured over it. Didi was pulling rubber gloves out of her jacket pocket and, after shoving her hands into them, opened the door to Mark’s office.

  “No one touch anything,” Hanson said as he put on his own pair of rubber gloves.

  “Does everything look pretty much in order, Ms. Walker?” Didi asked.

  Portia glanced around. Everything…wait. She walked slowly over to the couch. The pillows. She had fluffed and positioned them symmetrically before she left on Friday. These were thrown across the sofa as though someone had been using them in a fight. Nothing at all like she’d left them.

  She turned to face the detectives. “Well, I don’t know how important this is, but I arrange the couch pillows at the end of each day, and I would never arrange them like this. It looks like someone has been here. I mean other than Mr. Monroe. Because he never sits on the couch. Ever.”

  Didi walked over, examining the pillows. “Do you know if Mrs. Monroe had access to this office?”

  “Yes, Mr. Monroe gave Mrs. Monroe an access card for the garage and the building.” Portia paused. “Do you think she was here?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  “I’d say it’s a pretty good guess,” Hanson mumbled as he looked up at the picture hanging over the couch.

  “Do you know if Mr. Monroe was at the office on Saturday?” Didi asked.

  “I can answer that,” Brad Banks said. “I came in around one, and Mark was already here. We chatted for a few moments. He came down to say goodbye before he left around four-forty-five.”

  Hanson continued to stare at the picture hanging over the couch. He cocked his head to the side. It was crooked. He lifted it up and smiled when he saw the safe.

  “You know the combination for this?” he asked Portia over his shoulder.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I believe Mr. Monroe kept his personal papers in it.”

  Didi had already pulled out her cell phone and was calling for an evidence team and a safecracker to come to the scene. “Mr. Banks, we’re going to need to search this safe. Any objections?”

  Brad Banks cleared his throat. “As I said, Portia will be happy to box up anything personal for you. I cannot allow you to see his computer or any other firm files.” Brad looked at Portia. “You’ll see to it that the detectives get Mark’s personal effects?”

  “Of course, Mr. Banks.”

  Brad gave her a brisk nod as he looked at his watch. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with a client in ten minutes to prepare for. If there’s anything else you need—you have my card.” He turned on his heel and left the room.

  You Dropped A Bomb On Me…

  Kelly had gotten up at dark–thirty, as she sometimes called it. She paced the tiny room, trying to get her thoughts together.

  It had been another sleepless night, filled with images of Mark, his son, and his wife. She had been too tired to make the drive back to the city and wound up staying in Olympia Fields at yet another no-tell motel off the expressway. She only had about another hundred bucks in cash, and she was terrified of using her credit cards, sure they were being traced. Though she had showered yesterday, she was still wearing the same clothes she’d had on since Saturday morning. Once again, she washed her underwear out in the sink, performing the same ritual with the blow dryer as yesterday morning.

  She would call Sam Gordon today and beg him to take her case. Throw as much money at him as he would take. But…she had to see them one more time. She couldn’t help it. After all, she was already close by. She looked at her watch. It was seven-fifteen. She grabbed her keys and purse and opened the door.

  As she had been doing since Saturday, before she stepped into the hallway, she peered outside to see if anyone was there. She ran to her car, jumped in, and started driving. As soon as she’d checked into the motel, she’d gone to bed, so she hadn’t seen any news. She hadn’t bothered to turn it on this morning, fearful she’d see her face staring at her from the screen.

  The radio. See if there were any updates. She switched to the all-news station and swallowed; they were talking about Mark.

  “Police continue to search for Kelly Ross, wife of attorney Mark Monroe who was found murdered in his Gold Coast home Saturday evening. Ms. Ross is the prime suspect in the case and was last seen leaving the garage of her building early Saturday eveni
ng. According to police, she was spotted at the Sunshine Inn in River North and later at the Walgreens across the street. Ms. Ross is African-American, 5’9” with long, light brown hair. She was wearing a pink shirt and dark pants and is believed to be driving a black Mercedes with Illinois plates CCW 664. If you have seen her, please call Area Three Homicide at 312-555-0237. In other news this morning—”

  Kelly snapped off the radio and slapped the steering wheel out of both fear and frustration. Saturday night’s news said the last time anyone had seen her had been yesterday morning; obviously, they’d looked at the security cameras from the service elevator and had seen her pacing relentlessly before she fled. This was getting worse and worse. She took a few deep breaths and realized she was almost to the house. She parked in the same spot she’d parked in yesterday and waited.

  The little boy should be going to school soon. Did he walk? Take the school bus? Maybe his mother drove him. The door opened, and he came loping out of the house. His wardrobe had hardly changed from yesterday. Instead of a Bulls Jersey, he now wore a dark blue Fighting Illini one that was about two sizes too big. Of course, that was the style these days. She swallowed over the lump in her throat. Illinois—Mark’s alma mater. He carefully closed the door behind him and began to walk down the street. Kelly fought the urge to follow him. She couldn’t get over how much he looked like Mark.

  A few seconds later, Geneva Monroe came waddling out. Kelly slouched down and shook her head.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmured as she took in today’s ensemble, which, unbelievably, was even more outrageous than the one from yesterday. She’d changed her hairpiece to a long, black ponytail, which hung down the length of her iridescent purple overshirt, a black sequined bustier visible beneath the sheer fabric. Her gold lamé stretch pants and gold platform sandals glittered in the early morning sun. It wasn’t even noon, and she looked ready for the club.

  Geneva got behind the wheel of her gold Lexus and backed out of the driveway. Kelly laughed quietly to herself. This woman must really like the color gold. She waited about thirty seconds before she started her own car and followed her. She wasn’t even sure why she was doing this. Kelly felt obsessed with this woman, fascinated by her. Geneva drove fast and dangerously, bobbing and weaving between lanes like a boxer, and Kelly found it difficult to keep up without being noticed. She was headed to the city.

  It was nine before Geneva exited into Loop morning traffic. She pulled into the parking garage of an office building at State and Jackson. Kelly wasn’t sure what to do next. Wait for her? Yes, that was it. Wait for her. She would finish what she started yesterday and confront this woman who was married to her husband. Kelly sat in her car, rubbing heavy hands over tired, droopy eyes. Married to her husband. She still had a hard time wrapping her head around that one.

  She parked on a level one up from Geneva. There was a coffee shop a few blocks away. She’d risk it. She walked out onto Jackson and shivered immediately. Typical of Chicago this time of year, it was a good twenty degrees cooler than it had been Sunday, and her tank top wasn’t much defense against the frosty breezes. Maybe now she could stop somewhere and buy a sweater.

  She ran down to the shop and got a muffin and a cup of coffee. She had her sunglasses on and her hair pulled up, and she hoped that would be enough to keep anyone from singling her out. She sat in the back, ate her muffin, and drank her coffee in slow and measured movements. It was ten by the time Kelly left the shop, and she walked down into the garage where Geneva had parked her car. Still there. She wondered how long Geneva would stay. Kelly looked around, slightly restless. She’d walk around for a bit and then come back in about a half hour to see if Geneva was still there. In the meantime, she’d just roam. Hopefully, she’d blend in with the bustle of the city.

  She went into the Barnes & Noble on State and walked by a Sun-Times stack with her picture splashed across the front page. Maybe she was below the fold in the Trib. She casually walked out the door and continued to mosey down State Street, careful to keep her eyes averted, her arms velcroed across her chest. Kelly passed by Sears and looked down at her outfit. A sweater. Not to mention there was a description of what she was wearing on the radio this morning. Kill two birds with one stone. Kelly winced at this thought. She shouldn’t be thinking about killing.

  She pulled the door open and was immediately enveloped by the early morning quiet of the store. She kept her eyes glued to the shiny tile floor, so she wouldn’t have to look at any of the workers. Kelly poked around the women’s department, looking at various pants and tops. Within a half hour, she’d managed to find a black sweater set and a pair of jeans that fit pretty well. She also picked up a pack of cotton underwear. She probably wouldn’t even get to wear them, seeing as how she’d most likely be in jail tonight, but she felt better having them.

  She felt her bladder press against her, so she scurried around the store in search of the bathroom, finding it near the electronics section on the basement level. She wasn’t really paying attention to what was playing on the huge bank of TVs when she came out of the restroom until she heard Mark’s name. Her head flew up, and there was a picture of him on TV. She glanced over both shoulders to see if anyone was paying attention before turning back to look at the monitors.

  “A bombshell in the murder of prominent Chicago attorney, Mark Monroe. Earlier today, a woman by the name of Geneva Monroe held a press conference at her attorney’s office to announce she was Mark Monroe’s wife of ten years. Channel Seven reporter, Mel Hayes is live from the Loop with the latest. Mel?”

  “Sydney, in an unbelievable twist in this case, Geneva Monroe, a thirty-seven-year-old resident of Olympia Fields, announced she had been married to Mark Monroe for the past ten years and that they shared a son, Mark Monroe, Jr. Geneva Monroe also revealed she intends to file a multimillion dollar lawsuit against Mark Monroe’s other wife, Kelly Ross, for the wrongful death of Mark Monroe.”

  Kelly dropped the clothes she was holding, her heart exploding.

  Geneva Monroe’s attorney, Harvey Jackson, appeared on the screen.

  “Geneva Monroe just wants what is due to her and her son. We all know Kelly Ross killed Mark Monroe, further denying Geneva and her son the right to a husband and father. Once Kelly Ross is convicted of this crime—and we know she will be—we intend to pursue, to the full extent of the law, restitution for the transgression against Geneva Monroe and her son.”

  Geneva stood next to Harvey, trying her best to look forlorn, this morning’s garish ensemble tossed in favor of a conservative dark suit. As pitiful as she tried to make herself look, Kelly thought she detected the slightest hint of a smirk on her full, rubbery lips.

  She turned and ran out the store. She wanted to faint. Better yet, she wanted to die. She didn’t stop running until she reached the safety of her car. She slid down in the front seat, hyperventilating.

  This bitch was suing her? She’d gone on TV and told the world about her and Mark and now was suing her? Kelly wasn’t sure how long she stayed in the car. She was too shaky to drive, too afraid to go out into the streets. She was quite literally paralyzed by fear.

  Finally, she sat up and composed herself, a plan beginning to settle in her mind. She went to her trunk and pulled out all the documents she’d taken from Mark’s office yesterday. They had their joint accounts; she had separate investments from her modeling days. Runway, of course. They had joint investments, life insurance. Jesus. Could this woman take everything she had? Wasn’t Mark enough? Wasn’t being betrayed by Mark all this time punishment enough? Kelly pursed her lips, a determined look on her face. She would be damned if she would put up with this. Not from some skanky ‘hood rat.

  Getting Even…

  Kelly took a few deep breaths, going over all the steps she needed to take. She grabbed her purse and all the files and headed down the street to the Chicago Public Library. She hunted for a secluded spot, finally finding one on the fifth floor away from the flur
ry of the rest of the library. Kelly couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to the library. She was so busy, she’d never remember to turn the books in on time. She usually went to the bookstore instead, and then the books would sit around her house in piles because she didn’t have time to read those either.

  The library was rather busy for a Monday morning. At least, she guessed it was busy. Didn’t people work? Maybe they were students? There were a couple of colleges nearby. As she walked around though, she realized it was also home away from no home for the city’s homeless population.

  She dropped her purse down on the floor next to her and pulled out the folder of papers she’d gotten from Mark’s office. She’d been one of those ten thousand dollar a day models, although she hadn’t bragged about it like some. Smart investments coupled with lucrative spokesmodel contracts had ensured Kelly never had to work again. From her modeling income alone, her net worth was over ninety million dollars. That didn’t include revenue from Runway and the various investments she and Mark had jointly, which put her in the multimillionaire league many times over. Mark probably had a couple of million just in salary, and that didn’t include all the pies he had his hands in from cuts he took for setting up client deals.