The Trials of Max Q, page 10
Including our boss.
I straddle the bike and rev the engine. I toss her the only helmet. “You take it, you’d have a lot more to lose from a head injury.”
The gesture evokes a brief smile and she cautiously climbs on behind me.
After the Maxon revelation, the dry cleaning in Oneonta was put on hold. We returned to the Cirillos’ house, where George worked the phones. He confirmed that Maxon left the hotel by boat at approximately 6:30. He couldn’t confirm whether Amber Jazz was with him, but doubted it, as his source informed him that you’d remember it if you saw her.
George and Ashley then took off in opposite directions to confuse the media. So our ride to Anderson Estate is unimpeded.
Manning the gate once again is John Scurry.
“We’re here to see Ryan Maxon,” I politely announce, displaying my DA badge.
“Surprised you haven’t arrested him—you’ve arrested everybody else around here,” he replies, as surly as John gets.
I don’t explain the fact that the DA’s Office doesn’t arrest people, or remind him that only one person has been arrested. But it’s quite obvious we’re not going to win any popularity contests at Anderson Estate, on Main Street Cooperstown, or in any national poll.
“Where can I find him?” I ask, this time forcefully.
“As far as I know, Mr. Maxon has not left the guesthouse since you arrested Mr. Anderson.”
Again, we don’t arrest people, but I let it go and drive the bike onto the grounds of the estate. A few wrong turns later, we find the guesthouse. Guesthouse being a relative term—a twenty-room mansion is a more appropriate description
A disheveled looking man opens the door, wearing a ratty bathrobe and three day facial growth.
“Can I help you?” he asks in a detached voice.
“My name is Jessica Shepherdson and this is Jack Lawson—we are from the Otsego County District Attorney’s Office.”
“I know who you are, I asked if I could help you.”
“We have a few questions for you,” I say.
Maxon looks like he’s contemplating making our lives difficult, but can’t summon enough energy to fight. He turns and slowly walks back into the house and plops into a leather recliner.
Shep and I follow him in, closing the door behind us. We take a seat on a couch, facing him. The living room area is littered with empty beer bottles. I also notice a pile of DVD cases are stacked next to the recliner. I read a couple of the titles—Kitty Kitty Bang Bang and Citizen Bang. He is watching Laney Bang movies. I’m not sure what to make of that.
“Having a little party here?” I ask.
He smiles slightly, but not a happy smile. “Alcohol and porn. America’s real national pastimes.”
“We have record of a phone call Drew Anderson made to you at 6:19 in the morning on Monday,” Shep gets right to the point.
“So what?”
“Fourteen minutes earlier, a distressed Laney Bang made a 911 call from Anderson Estate. She was murdered shortly thereafter.”
“Was she really?” he asks with heavy sarcasm. He veers between laughter and tears. Ryan Maxon is a troubling sight.
“Why did Drew Anderson call you that morning?” Shep asks.
“If you did your homework, you would know that Drew calls me every morning, to go over the days agenda.”
“But this was the only day he called you after a murder took place in his house,” I contest.
Maxon looks unimpressed. “I still don’t know where you’re going with this.”
“I’ll tell you where we’re headed. We have confirmed that you left the Otesaga Hotel minutes after your call with Anderson, to return here by boat. Unless you can prove otherwise, you are on a collision course with an accessory to murder charge,” Shep says.
I don’t know if she is being inspired by the praise she garnered from the bail hearing, the trust I showed her this morning, or annoyance at Maxon’s stonewalling, but she is now completely engaged, and I suddenly feel like I have a teammate.
Maxon twists the cap off another beer, while shaking his head sadly at Shep. He’s despondent. I recognize the look as my own when I first arrived in Cooperstown. It’s the look of someone who has been to hell. But unlike myself, Maxon has yet to catch his return flight.
“What was discussed in that phone call?” I inquire.
Maxon casually sips his beer. “We were supposed to leave for Manhattan by eight, as we had a full day of meetings set up, but Drew informed me that something had come up. So he told me to push back the flight, while he took care of it.”
“Would the thing he needed to take care of have something to do with the body of a murdered woman?” I ask.
“If he actually killed someone, which he didn’t, I would have been over immediately to remove the body. Even when he gets cleared in this case, he will always have some baggage hanging over him. I would’ve advised him to get rid of the body, whether he did it or not.”
“So you would encourage him to break the law?”
“I would do anything to protect Drew Anderson and his reputation. Are you really here to debate hypotheticals?”
He must be unaware that he’s dealing with Lawyer Jack here, not his weakling alter-ego. “I don’t think it’s hypothetical at all. In fact, I believe it’s exactly what you did. Anderson ordered you back here during that phone call, and since you are a professional lackey with no mind of your own, you discarded the murder weapon for him. But before you could get back for the body, the police arrived.”
Maxon takes another sip of beer—his way of saying he won’t dignify my wild theory with an answer.
“Where were you going in that boat?” Shep follows up.
“Since our flight was pushed back, I had unexpected time on my hands. So I did what I always do when I have time to kill in Cooperstown—I went fishing.”
“Did you catch anything?” I ask.
“Not a murder weapon, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Everybody seems to have all the right answers in this case. Maybe because they’re telling the truth. But I’m convinced that there’s something Ryan Maxon isn’t telling us.
Shep gets us back on course, “Tell me about the meeting the night before.”
“Sorry to ruin everyone’s fantasies, but it was a professional business meeting. I won’t go into specific business details of Max-Q-Collectibles, but I can say that it was cordial, we made progress, and agreed to meet again in the near future.”
“But you can’t say for sure what took place after you and Amber Jazz left?”
“I can’t.”
“Drew and Laney Bang appear to be more like adversaries than business partners. How did such a meeting come about?”
I’m expecting him to try to hide behind some confidentiality agreement, but a proud look comes over his face. “I brokered the deal. It took months of secretive negotiations, and up until the last minute, I wondered if it would ever come off.”
“Was it normal for Drew to put his assistant in charge of arranging such a sensitive meeting?”
I can tell he doesn’t appreciate my use of the term “assistant,” as I think Ryan Maxon had a grander view of his employment status with Anderson.
“It was a unique situation.”
“Why was that?”
“Because I had a personal relationship with both parties.”
“You had a relationship with the victim?” I ask, trying to hide the astonishment in my voice.
“She was a close personal friend of mine. Does this surprise you?”
Shep and I look at each other. Yes it does.
“How long did you know her?” I ask.
“Laney Bang?”
“I believe that’s who we’re talking about.”
“We met at a New Year’s party in Las Vegas about a year-and-a-half ago.” The words seem to trigger something and he abruptly breaks down. Tears well in his eyes and he wails, “I can’t believe she’s gone!”
Shep and I again trade glances, each knowing what the other is thinking. Sounds like Ryan Maxon had a major thing for Laney Bang, which makes him much more interesting to us.
“Do you normally watch your friends having sex?” Shep asks, pointing at the stack of Laney Bang videos.
Maxon emerges from his tears with a weird smile. “Laney was an artist. Watching these tapes is no different than observing Monet paint.”
Shep cringes, while I visualize some poor sap trying to use that as an excuse on his wife or girlfriend.
Maxon’s smile washes away, and for the first time he speaks with confidence, “Drew will get off. Even if you had a video of him killing her, you couldn’t get a conviction. Everything always comes out aces for him.”
“Do you resent him for that?” Shep asks.
“I live in this beautiful mansion. I’m paid handsomely, and have job security that others can only dream of. When Drew Anderson goes to the governor’s office, I’m going with him. I spent the night in question with a woman most men would give up ten years of their life for just one night with. Do I resent him? Hell no—I worship him, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect him. My tears are for Laney, not Drew.”
I decide that we’re done, even though I can tell Shep has an extensive list of followup questions in her head.
“Good day, Mr. Maxon. You were very helpful ... and we are sorry for your loss,” I say, while simultaneously yanking Shep toward the door.
He slumps in his chair, offering no reply.
Shep and I are off to question the woman who men would give up ten years of their life for.
Chapter 25
The sunny day has unexpectedly turned gray and drizzly. Through the mist I point out some of the lake’s finer points to Shep—Whistling Turtle, Woody’s Point, Over the Edge. Her fright has lessened slightly, and she is holding steady on the back of the F-41.
George calls my cell. I pull over and put him on speaker. He informs us that Amber Jazz has been holed up in the Otesaga Hotel since Laney’s murder hit the news.
“Has anyone actually seen her?” I ask.
“Yeah, kid, the room service waiters,” he replies with a chuckle. “When they arrived with her meal, they didn’t know they were the entrée.”
I smile. “Anything else?”
“I checked out Anderson’s morning jogs. From what I could gather, he takes the same path every day—regimented to the point of obsession. He leaves Anderson Estate at exactly six a.m. and heads east, passing Glimmerglass State Park. He picks up Route-31 on the east side of the lake and runs toward Cooperstown Village. He then does a u-turn at the halfway point and retraces his steps. It’s about a ten mile run altogether. We can try to find people along the way that contradict those affidavits.”
I thank the Babe and roar toward Otesaga Hotel.
The historic hotel is famous for its stately columns, inviting porch, and deep verandas that overlook the shores of Otsego Lake. The Lawson family are big fans, which is another way to say it’s steeped in old money and timeless elegance.
Mac and Ashley had their wedding reception in Otesaga’s grand ballroom. Then a weekend of boating on the lake and golfing at the acclaimed Leatherstocking Golf Course, which sprawls gracefully behind the hotel.
Shep and I walk under the grand neo-Georgian columns and into the glitzy lobby. The Otesaga normally has an ironclad policy about giving out room numbers, but Ms. Jazz has built up enough ill will that we’re shown to her fifth-floor suite without having to display a badge. I knock on the door and shout “room service,” which receives a begrudging smile from Shep. The door eases open and Amber Jazz appears before us.
I’m awestruck by her height—easily over six-feet with help from her skyscraper heels. Her look is stereotypical. Dramatic high blonde hair and breasts that need their own zip code. But compared to Laney, she seems plastic, as if she were created to be the bionic woman of sex. Laney had the ability to morph from the sultry seductress to the innocent girl next door, but my first impression is that Amber is a cold seductress.
She invites us into a room that smells like a Grateful Dead concert. She’s wearing a microscopic T-shirt that exposes her flat abs. It’s tied with shoelaces around her midsection, creating a harness effect that appears to defy gravity in holding up her enormous chest. It reads Pornstar across the front, perhaps to make sure we didn’t mistake her for a neurosurgeon.
While the body matches the reputation, from the neck up, Amber Jazz is a mess. She looks tired, haggard, and far beyond her supposed twenty-five years of age. I don’t know if it’s Laney’s death, or the effects of a three-day drug binge, but today’s version of Amber looks more like the lead singer of Mötley Crüe than the epitome of male fantasy.
“You’re not room service, are you?” she finally catches on.
“My name is Jessica Shepherdson and this is Jack Lawson, we are from the Otsego County DA’s Office,” Shep announces, all business.
She notices my examination of a joint smoldering in an ashtray, and her look turns concerned.
“I’m fucked,” she exclaims in a smoky voice. I can tell this isn’t her first encounter with law enforcement.
“Maybe not if you help us out.”
Amber grins, once again in her element. She drops to her knees in front of my “happy zone” to begin her version of a negotiation tactic. “You won’t regret this, sweetie,” she purrs.
I look to Shep for help, but all I get back is a horrified look. “Not that,” I say, my voice cracking. “By help us out, I mean answer some questions about your friend Laney Bang.”
Amber’s steely eyes soften. She looks like she wants to cry, but no longer possesses the ability to do so.
Needing to escape the smoky haze, I suggest we talk on the balcony. Shep thanks my quick thinking with a subtle look of gratitude, and wipes tears from her eyes—the smoke is unbearable.
Amber grabs a pack of cigarettes and half-full glass of what looks like champagne, and seductively saunters to the patio. We follow, happy to get out of the room. The view of the misty lake is a beautiful sight, the rain showers have stopped and a rainbow arches over Cooperstown.
Amber sips her drink with her bee-sting lips, leaving a residue of red lipstick on the glass. “So, Jack Lawson, have you and your girlfriend here ever brought another woman into the bedroom?”
My face turns a shade of cranberry. “Um, what? She’s not my …”
Shep is in no mood. “Let’s cut out the games. Either cooperate with us or the only threesome you will be involved with will be the number of people in your cell.”
Amber rolls her cigarette over her lips. “You don’t get it much do you, Ms. Shepherdson?”
Shep looks like she’s using every muscle in her body to fight off the urge to beat Amber to a pulp, so I take over the questioning. “Tell us what happened the night leading up to Laney’s death.”
Amber swigs the remaining contents of her glass, and then becomes even more fidgety, if that’s possible. “I knew it wasn’t a good idea—I told her not to go through with it. She was playing with the big boys, and the big boys don’t play fair.”
“Go through with what?” Shep asks.
“Laney had been planning it for a long time. As long as I knew her, she was obsessed with him,” Amber rambles, then tries to drink again from her glass. When she figures out it’s empty, she tosses it with frustration onto the cement patio. The shattering of glass momentarily startles us.
“What had she been planning?” I ask in a calming voice, but it has little effect on the hysterical Amber.
“Don’t you get it—she was going to blackmail him! That night was to be the night. That’s why I went to the meeting, to try to make sure she was safe. Laney told me that she’d be okay!”
Shep and I make eye contact. Sure, Amber Jazz isn’t exactly what you picture when you look up credibility in the dictionary, but this is the first piece of information that slightly resembles a motive.
“If Laney had been planning this blackmail scheme for a long while, then she must have had previous meetings with Drew Anderson,” I say.
Amber snorts a condescending laugh. “Meetings? I’m not sure meetings is what I’d call them. But sure, meetings will work.”
“Laney Bang and Drew Anderson were having an affair?” Shep asks, reading my mind.
“Affair is something bored rich people do in the suburbs, sweetheart,” Amber says between drags on her cigarette.
“Then what are we talking about?”
Chapter 26
Amber puts out another cigarette on the glass table, no ashtray required. “I need a drink—somebody get me a drink!” she yells out. I expect servants to rush to her beck and call, but there are none.
Shep is aware that we’re onto something and runs back into the room. She returns to the porch with a half full bottle of champagne. Amber Jazz begins drinking straight out of the bottle.
The alcohol seems to calm her, allowing her to continue, “I told her to stay away from that snake, but she wouldn’t listen. They would go to Laney’s secret spot in the city, and they’d have to hose down the walls when they were finished. Then Anderson would go back to his wife, and telling people how to live their lives like he was the fuckin’ Pope or something. At least Laney wasn’t pretendin’ to be something she ain’t.”
“Where is this secret spot in the city?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Hell if I know. Wouldn’t be secret if anyone knew.”
“So you didn’t actually see Laney and Drew together.”
“I said they went to her secret spot, but I didn’t say that was the only spot.”
“So you did witness them in action?”
“Witness them? I wasn’t just a spectator ...”
I am rendered speechless, so Shep takes over, “You didn’t happen to make any films of these get-togethers, did you?”
Amber shakes her head. “Film is business, this was personal for Laney.”
“I can tell she was important to you,” Shep displays surprising tenderness.
The tactic seems to work, as Amber begins to open up. “I was only sixteen when I got in the business—lied, said I was eighteen. Laney took me under her wing, I was gonna be her protégé—the next Laney Bang!” she states proudly, before adding, “Laney was bigger than life. She was different from the rest of us.”
