“So, what happens to all this now?”
“Now, of course, I can start liquidation. There are debts to pay, not to mention Kimberly’s tastes to support. I think she’ll be more prone to lose a few knickknacks to maintain her lifestyle.”
“And after you pay the debts, will there be enough to make up for her husband not having life insurance?”
“Oh, I don’t think Kimberly will need to throw any telethons,” said Paxton.
Nikki processed that as she wandered the room. Last time she visited, it was a crime scene. Now she was simply taking in its opulence. The crystal, the tapestries, the Kentian bookcase with fruit and flower carvings…She saw a painting she liked, a Raoul Dufy yachting scene, and leaned in for a closer look. The Boston Museum of Fine Arts was a ten-minute walk from her dorm when Nikki attended Northeastern. Although the hours she spent there as an art lover did not qualify her as an art expert, she recognized some of the works Matthew Starr had collected. They were expensive, but to her eye, the room was a two-story grab bag. Impressionists hung beside Old Masters; 1930s German poster art rubbed elbows with an Italian religious triptych from the 1400s. She lingered before a John Singer Sargent study for one of her favorite paintings, Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose. Though it was a preliminary sketch in oil, one of the many Sargent made before each finished painting, she found herself transfixed by the familiar little girls, so wonderfully innocent in their white play dresses, lighting Chinese lanterns in a garden in the delicate glow of twilight. And then she wondered what it was doing beside the brash Gino Severini, a pricey, no doubt, but gaudy canvas of oil and crushed sequins. “Every other collection I’ve seen has a…I don’t know, theme to it, or a common feel or, what am I trying to say…?”
“Taste?” said Paxton. Now that he’d crossed his line, it was a free-fire zone. Even so, he lowered his voice to a hush and looked around as if he would be ducking lightning bolts for speaking ill of the dead. But speak ill he did. “If you’re looking to see rhyme or reason to this collection, you won’t, due to one unavoidable fact. Matthew was a vulgarian. He didn’t know art. He knew price.”
Rook came up beside Heat and said, “I think if we keep looking we’ll find a Dogs Playing Poker,” which made her laugh. Even Paxton indulged himself a chuckle. They all stopped when the front door opened and Kimberly Starr breezed in.
“Sorry I’m late.” Heat and Rook stared at her, barely masking disbelief and judgment. Her face was swollen from Botox or some other series of cosmetic injections. Redness and bruising highlighted the unnatural swelling of her lips and smile lines. Her brow and forehead were marked with deep pink speed bumps that filled wrinkle lines and seemed to be growing before their eyes. The woman looked as if she had fallen face-first into a hornet’s nest. “The traffic lights were out on Lexington. Damn heat wave.”
“I left the papers on the desk in the study,” said Noah Paxton. He already had his briefcase in one hand and the other on the doorknob. “I have a lot of loose ends to attend to at the office. Detective Heat, if you need me for anything, you know how to find me.” The eye roll he gave Nikki behind Kimberly’s back threw water on Heat’s trophy wife/ accountant sleeping together hypothetical, although she would still check it out.
Kimberly and the detective took their identical seats in the living room from the day of the murder. Rook avoided the toile wingchair and sat on the couch with Mrs. Starr. Probably so he wouldn’t have to look at her, thought Nikki.
The face work wasn’t the only change. She was out of her Talbots and into Ed Hardy, a black tank dress with a large tattoo print of a red rose and the legend “Dedicated To The One I Love” in biker scroll. At least the widow was in black. Kimberly came at her brusquely, like this was some intrusion on the rest of her day. “Well? You said you have something for me to look at?”
Heat didn’t personalize. Her style was to assess, not judge. Her assessment was that, personal grief modality aside, Kimberly Starr was treating her like the hired help, and she needed to reverse that power dynamic and fast. “Why did you lie to me about your whereabouts at the time of your husband’s murder, Mrs. Starr?”
The woman’s swollen face was still capable of registering some emotions, and fear was one of them. Nikki Heat liked the look. “What do you mean? Lie? Why would I lie?”
“I’ll get to that when I’m ready. First, I want to know where you were between one and two P.M. since you were not at Dino-Bites. You lied.”
“I didn’t lie. I was there.”
“You dropped your son and nanny off and left. I already have witnesses. Should I ask the nanny, also?”
“No. That’s true, I left.”
“Where were you, Mrs. Starr? And this time I’d advise you to be truthful.”
“All right. I was with a man. I was embarrassed to tell you.”
“Tell me now. What do you mean with a man?”
“God, you’re a bitch. I was sleeping with this guy, OK? Happy?”
“What’s his name?”
“You can’t be serious.”
The face Nikki gave her could still show the full range of expression. It told her she was quite serious. “And don’t say Barry Gable, he says you stood him up.” Heat watched Kimberly’s mouth go slack. “Barry Gable. You know, the man who assaulted you on the street? The one you told Detective Ochoa must have been a purse snatcher and that you didn’t know him?”
“I was having an affair. My husband just died. I was embarrassed to say.”
“So if you’re over your shyness, Kimberly, tell me about this other affair so I can verify your whereabouts. And, as I’m sure you just figured out, I will check.”
Kimberly gave her the name of a doctor, Cory Van Peldt. Yes, it was the truth, she said, and yes, it was the same doctor she had seen this morning. Heat had her spell his name and wrote it on her pad along with his number. Kimberly said she met him when she went in for a facial assessment two weeks ago, and they had this magic thing. Heat was betting the magic was in his pants and was his wallet, but she knew better than to say so. She prayed Rook had the same sense.
As long as things were in a hostile vein, Nikki decided to press on. In a few minutes she would need Kimberly’s cooperation with the photos and wanted her to think twice about lying, or be so rattled she’d do it poorly if she did. “A lot of things can’t be taken at face value with you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me, Laldomina.”
“Excuse me?”
“And Samantha.”
“Hey, don’t you start with that, nuh-uh.”
“Wow, that’s cool. You sounded pure Long Island.” She turned to Rook. “See what stress does? All that preppy posing falls away.”
“First of all, my legal name is Kimberly Starr. There’s no crime in changing a name.”
“Help me out: Why Samantha? I’m picturing you with your natural color and see you more as a Tiffany or Crystal.”
“You cops, you always loved to give us girls a hard time for getting by any way we could. People do what they gotta do, ya know?”
“That’s why we’re having this conversation. To find out who did what.”
“If that means did I kill my husband…God, I can’t believe I just said that…The answer is no.” She waited for some response from Heat, and Nikki didn’t give it. Let her wonder, she thought.
“My husband changed his name, too, did you know that? In the eighties. He took a branding seminar and decided what was holding him back was his name. Bruce DeLay. He said the words construction and DeLay weren’t the best selling tool, so he researched names that would be brand-positive. You know, upbeat and inspiring confidence. He made a list, names like Champion and Best. He picked Star and added the extra r so it wouldn’t sound fake.”