11AM
Goren pressed the bell, than stepped back, surveying the hallway, taking in every detail. It was mostly a show, even if Eames was his only audience. Park Avenue apartment buildings all had really nice and really impersonal hallways, decorated like living rooms in a museum to the fabulously wealthy. It offered no insight into the inhabitants, except that they were fabulously wealthy. Or screwing somebody who was fabulously wealthy. Now if the apartment itself were decorated the same way . . .
A young woman, presumably the person who'd given the doorman permission to let them come up, answered the door. For a moment, even Goren was a little surprised. Five-six-ish, odd colored hair pulled back in a not-very- flattering ponytail, tattered cardigan over tank top and faded pajama bottoms, no makeup, and no fake welcoming smile. She did not fit here. He met her brown eyes and noticed the sadness. Controlled, even resolute, but pervasive nonetheless. She had suffered greatly and recently, the bones jutting out at the base of her neck testimony to sudden weight loss - this, he felt sure, was not a woman who typically looked so waifish. In fact, he could dimly recall the pictures in the paper and on the television. Amy Baldwin looking pale and stricken, but definitely several pounds heavier.
She stood with one hand on the doorknob, the other hanging loosely at her side. "Yes?"
"Miss Baldwin?" Eames asked politely.
"Yes. How can I help you?" Her voice was calm and even, unlike most people who, when confronted with police officers, started getting nervous and dry mouthed, worried that some of their mundane sins had come back to haunt them.
Bobby spoke up, haltingly. "I'm Detective Goren, this is my partner, Detective Eames. Can we come in?" He was bent forward, subtly wedging himself in.
Only his practiced eye saw the slight widening of the eyes, the extra swallow. Apprehension. Fear.
"What's this about?" Her voice had become more serious, but there was no detectable tremor or hesitation.
"It's really better if we talk inside." Detective Eames supplied soothingly. But Miss Baldwin was not looking at the other woman. She watched Bobby. It was him she sized up before shrugging and turning, leaving the door open.
The apartment was a large duplex with hardwood floors and crown molding. As she led them through the front room, a large light drenched room with a grand piano, oriental rug, comfortable looking furniture, and tasteful modern artwork and photographs, Bobby tried to get her to slow down by stopping to study one of the pictures, but she and Eames proceeded through a side hallway, Eames glaring at him over her shoulder.
She led them into a smaller, bookshelf-lined sitting room, with a television and old - not be confused with antique - sofa and armchairs. She motioned for them to sit, which they did before realizing that she would remain standing. Bobby was almost certain this was unconscious. She had her arms folded over her stomach, but otherwise exhibited no sign of nervousness.
Eames started. "Miss Baldwin, do you know a Karen Baldwin?"
A muted look of relief washed over the woman's face and she relaxed her arms. "Oh, her. What did she tell you?" She sounded mildly annoyed.
"Tell us?" Bobby asked, standing up and beginning to survey the bookshelves, tilting his head to read the titles.
"Yeah, she's my cousin. She came here three days ago, trying to blackmail me. It's bullshit. Provably, if you want to . . ."
"Karen Baldwin's body was found at her hotel this morning." Bobby said, glancing surreptitiously to see the woman's reaction to his blunt announcement.
"Oh." The woman said, face completely blank. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." She sat heavily in a nearby armchair.
"Most people would be relieved," Eames supplied.
Miss Baldwin shot them both withering looks. "I didn't like Karen, but I remember her from before she became what she was. Besides," she added in an undertone, "I don't have much family left. It's never good news to hear another one's gone."
Bobby, whose examination of the shelves was proving confusing - how could you profile someone with Advanced Microbiology sitting between Where the Sidewalk Ends and Immanuel Kant? - turned. "Yeah, your brother, your in- laws. It's getting dangerous being your relative."
Her jaw dropped. Arrow had hit target and, as he sometimes did, Bobby felt like shit. Reference to the recent accident, which was, after all the reason this was a major case and not a minor inconvenience, struck a raw nerve. Even Bobby had been affected when he had read the news clippings six months previous. While other officers had mourned the deaths of the detective and his wife, a popular physician and socialite, Ben Baldwin had been the loss Bobby had felt. He would miss the journalist's dry wit, compelling articles, keen eye for human weakness and compassion for society's victims. Last month, the book Ben had been working on, based on his Pulitzer Prize winning article about an Atlanta detective, had been published to rave reviews. The publisher had gotten considerable mileage out of the tragedy and out of the image of the bereft sister, throwing herself into the task of finishing her brother's book so it could be published on schedule.
Amy Baldwin had been left all alone, the guardian of her brother's memory. And he had just rubbed salt in the wound.
He felt like shit, but not enough so to backpedal and apologize. He was half convinced she'd done the deed, which was about a quarter less than he'd been when he and Eames had walked in. He found himself hoping he'd provoke her into convincing him of the opposite.
"That's . . . cruel," she said through clenched teeth, staring down at her feet. "My brother . . . that's cruel."
Cruel, but effective. Bobby was glad she wasn't the hysterical type. She clearly tended to underreaction, a state that left her able to be questioned but too distracted, hopefully, to dissemble effectively. He continued to peruse the shelves, picking up a photograph of Amy with her brother and their in laws. She and Ben had the same understated, slightly hesitant smile. Expecting the next blow to fall.
Eames looked disapproving. Cool it, her glance seemed to say, let's draw this thing out some more. "What my partner meant to say is that he's sorry you've lost so much."
Amy did not look convinced, but she also did not comment. Her eyes still followed Goren's movements. Follow the bouncing ball and you'll know what words to say.
"Have you called Karen's father? I have his number somewhere . . ."
Eames waved her offer away. "The Nebraska authorities are contacting him."
Amy nodded. Then, as though reluctantly giving into curiosity, "How did she die?"
"Burnt to a crisp." Goren replied carelessly. "This an interesting library. Trashy mysteries, Schopenhauer. . ."
"They're not mine. What do you mean?" Irritated, but not angry.
"She was set on fire," Eames elaborated. "In her hotel room."
Her hand passed over her eyes and she exhaled slowly. "Jesus. Oh, Karen."
Goren ceased his examination of the bookshelves to watch her. She sat back in the chair; shoulders hunched very slightly, legs crossed. Her hand moved slowly from her face to come to rest with the other in her lap. She did not fidget or shift in her seat. She did not cry.
Eames picked up the ball. "When was the last time you saw your cousin?"
No hesitation. "Two nights ago. At her hotel room."
Goren eased his way across the room. The shelves on that side contained few books. Mostly pictures and knick-knacks.
Eames tried and failed to get Amy to focus on her. "You were in her hotel room?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Well I . . ." She was choosing her words carefully. "We argued, of course, and I said some mean things in anger. I dragged her out of here and put her in a cab and I told her that cab fare and money for therapy was the only cash she'd get from me. If she wanted more, she could sell her story to the tabloids."
"You paid for her cab?" Amy nodded. "And why did you go see her?"
Amy replied matter-of-factly. "I wanted her to know I was serious about the therapy. The conversation degenerated rapidly and the hooker next door ended up asking us to shut up. I left."
Eames knit her eyebrows together. "I'm sorry, I'm still stuck on the therapy . . .?"
"My cousin had problems. Drugs and other things. I . . ."
"Miss Baldwin," Goren broke in. He turned, holding a glass-lidded box. "These were your brother-in-law's things?"
"Rick's, yes." She answered.
Goren looked at the box as he spoke. "There's his . . . badge, gun . . . it's a memorial. Usually, the family has to turn the gun in."
A small smile appeared. "Yes, well, Alison - my sister-in-law - dared the police commissioner to have someone force her to give them up. One doesn't call Alison's bluffs."
Goren smiled, placing the box down, "I understand, she wanted to remember him. . . I'm confused, though, there's a space for the handcuffs, an indentation on the velvet, but there aren't any cuffs."
Amy stood and stepped to the box. "What? They were here two weeks ago, when I got back from L.A."
"What were you doing in L.A.?" Goren asked conversationally, stepping back so she could look at the box.
She answered automatically. "Wrapping up a film. I'm an actress. This isn't . . . This doesn't make sense."
"Where were you between 5 and 7 this morning?"
She met Goren's eyes. "I went for a walk. I don't sleep well these days. I left around 5:30, got back around 8."
"Anyone see you?"
"The doorman. I didn't stop anywhere."
"We're gonna need you to come with us, Miss Baldwin." Eames stood.
Amy turned, and looked at the officers, the shallow line between her brows the only outward expression of concern. "Need or require?" She asked steadily.
"We'd really appreciate it." Eames deadpanned.
Amy paused. Goren could see the wheels churning. To call the lawyer or not to call, to call or not to call. . . Although it had been his partner who spoke, she looked at him when she answered. "Okay. Just let me change. And leave that alone." She said sharply as Bobby laid his hand on a badly painted vase. "It's not even mine."
Goren pressed the bell, than stepped back, surveying the hallway, taking in every detail. It was mostly a show, even if Eames was his only audience. Park Avenue apartment buildings all had really nice and really impersonal hallways, decorated like living rooms in a museum to the fabulously wealthy. It offered no insight into the inhabitants, except that they were fabulously wealthy. Or screwing somebody who was fabulously wealthy. Now if the apartment itself were decorated the same way . . .
A young woman, presumably the person who'd given the doorman permission to let them come up, answered the door. For a moment, even Goren was a little surprised. Five-six-ish, odd colored hair pulled back in a not-very- flattering ponytail, tattered cardigan over tank top and faded pajama bottoms, no makeup, and no fake welcoming smile. She did not fit here. He met her brown eyes and noticed the sadness. Controlled, even resolute, but pervasive nonetheless. She had suffered greatly and recently, the bones jutting out at the base of her neck testimony to sudden weight loss - this, he felt sure, was not a woman who typically looked so waifish. In fact, he could dimly recall the pictures in the paper and on the television. Amy Baldwin looking pale and stricken, but definitely several pounds heavier.
She stood with one hand on the doorknob, the other hanging loosely at her side. "Yes?"
"Miss Baldwin?" Eames asked politely.
"Yes. How can I help you?" Her voice was calm and even, unlike most people who, when confronted with police officers, started getting nervous and dry mouthed, worried that some of their mundane sins had come back to haunt them.
Bobby spoke up, haltingly. "I'm Detective Goren, this is my partner, Detective Eames. Can we come in?" He was bent forward, subtly wedging himself in.
Only his practiced eye saw the slight widening of the eyes, the extra swallow. Apprehension. Fear.
"What's this about?" Her voice had become more serious, but there was no detectable tremor or hesitation.
"It's really better if we talk inside." Detective Eames supplied soothingly. But Miss Baldwin was not looking at the other woman. She watched Bobby. It was him she sized up before shrugging and turning, leaving the door open.
The apartment was a large duplex with hardwood floors and crown molding. As she led them through the front room, a large light drenched room with a grand piano, oriental rug, comfortable looking furniture, and tasteful modern artwork and photographs, Bobby tried to get her to slow down by stopping to study one of the pictures, but she and Eames proceeded through a side hallway, Eames glaring at him over her shoulder.
She led them into a smaller, bookshelf-lined sitting room, with a television and old - not be confused with antique - sofa and armchairs. She motioned for them to sit, which they did before realizing that she would remain standing. Bobby was almost certain this was unconscious. She had her arms folded over her stomach, but otherwise exhibited no sign of nervousness.
Eames started. "Miss Baldwin, do you know a Karen Baldwin?"
A muted look of relief washed over the woman's face and she relaxed her arms. "Oh, her. What did she tell you?" She sounded mildly annoyed.
"Tell us?" Bobby asked, standing up and beginning to survey the bookshelves, tilting his head to read the titles.
"Yeah, she's my cousin. She came here three days ago, trying to blackmail me. It's bullshit. Provably, if you want to . . ."
"Karen Baldwin's body was found at her hotel this morning." Bobby said, glancing surreptitiously to see the woman's reaction to his blunt announcement.
"Oh." The woman said, face completely blank. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." She sat heavily in a nearby armchair.
"Most people would be relieved," Eames supplied.
Miss Baldwin shot them both withering looks. "I didn't like Karen, but I remember her from before she became what she was. Besides," she added in an undertone, "I don't have much family left. It's never good news to hear another one's gone."
Bobby, whose examination of the shelves was proving confusing - how could you profile someone with Advanced Microbiology sitting between Where the Sidewalk Ends and Immanuel Kant? - turned. "Yeah, your brother, your in- laws. It's getting dangerous being your relative."
Her jaw dropped. Arrow had hit target and, as he sometimes did, Bobby felt like shit. Reference to the recent accident, which was, after all the reason this was a major case and not a minor inconvenience, struck a raw nerve. Even Bobby had been affected when he had read the news clippings six months previous. While other officers had mourned the deaths of the detective and his wife, a popular physician and socialite, Ben Baldwin had been the loss Bobby had felt. He would miss the journalist's dry wit, compelling articles, keen eye for human weakness and compassion for society's victims. Last month, the book Ben had been working on, based on his Pulitzer Prize winning article about an Atlanta detective, had been published to rave reviews. The publisher had gotten considerable mileage out of the tragedy and out of the image of the bereft sister, throwing herself into the task of finishing her brother's book so it could be published on schedule.
Amy Baldwin had been left all alone, the guardian of her brother's memory. And he had just rubbed salt in the wound.
He felt like shit, but not enough so to backpedal and apologize. He was half convinced she'd done the deed, which was about a quarter less than he'd been when he and Eames had walked in. He found himself hoping he'd provoke her into convincing him of the opposite.
"That's . . . cruel," she said through clenched teeth, staring down at her feet. "My brother . . . that's cruel."
Cruel, but effective. Bobby was glad she wasn't the hysterical type. She clearly tended to underreaction, a state that left her able to be questioned but too distracted, hopefully, to dissemble effectively. He continued to peruse the shelves, picking up a photograph of Amy with her brother and their in laws. She and Ben had the same understated, slightly hesitant smile. Expecting the next blow to fall.
Eames looked disapproving. Cool it, her glance seemed to say, let's draw this thing out some more. "What my partner meant to say is that he's sorry you've lost so much."
Amy did not look convinced, but she also did not comment. Her eyes still followed Goren's movements. Follow the bouncing ball and you'll know what words to say.
"Have you called Karen's father? I have his number somewhere . . ."
Eames waved her offer away. "The Nebraska authorities are contacting him."
Amy nodded. Then, as though reluctantly giving into curiosity, "How did she die?"
"Burnt to a crisp." Goren replied carelessly. "This an interesting library. Trashy mysteries, Schopenhauer. . ."
"They're not mine. What do you mean?" Irritated, but not angry.
"She was set on fire," Eames elaborated. "In her hotel room."
Her hand passed over her eyes and she exhaled slowly. "Jesus. Oh, Karen."
Goren ceased his examination of the bookshelves to watch her. She sat back in the chair; shoulders hunched very slightly, legs crossed. Her hand moved slowly from her face to come to rest with the other in her lap. She did not fidget or shift in her seat. She did not cry.
Eames picked up the ball. "When was the last time you saw your cousin?"
No hesitation. "Two nights ago. At her hotel room."
Goren eased his way across the room. The shelves on that side contained few books. Mostly pictures and knick-knacks.
Eames tried and failed to get Amy to focus on her. "You were in her hotel room?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Well I . . ." She was choosing her words carefully. "We argued, of course, and I said some mean things in anger. I dragged her out of here and put her in a cab and I told her that cab fare and money for therapy was the only cash she'd get from me. If she wanted more, she could sell her story to the tabloids."
"You paid for her cab?" Amy nodded. "And why did you go see her?"
Amy replied matter-of-factly. "I wanted her to know I was serious about the therapy. The conversation degenerated rapidly and the hooker next door ended up asking us to shut up. I left."
Eames knit her eyebrows together. "I'm sorry, I'm still stuck on the therapy . . .?"
"My cousin had problems. Drugs and other things. I . . ."
"Miss Baldwin," Goren broke in. He turned, holding a glass-lidded box. "These were your brother-in-law's things?"
"Rick's, yes." She answered.
Goren looked at the box as he spoke. "There's his . . . badge, gun . . . it's a memorial. Usually, the family has to turn the gun in."
A small smile appeared. "Yes, well, Alison - my sister-in-law - dared the police commissioner to have someone force her to give them up. One doesn't call Alison's bluffs."
Goren smiled, placing the box down, "I understand, she wanted to remember him. . . I'm confused, though, there's a space for the handcuffs, an indentation on the velvet, but there aren't any cuffs."
Amy stood and stepped to the box. "What? They were here two weeks ago, when I got back from L.A."
"What were you doing in L.A.?" Goren asked conversationally, stepping back so she could look at the box.
She answered automatically. "Wrapping up a film. I'm an actress. This isn't . . . This doesn't make sense."
"Where were you between 5 and 7 this morning?"
She met Goren's eyes. "I went for a walk. I don't sleep well these days. I left around 5:30, got back around 8."
"Anyone see you?"
"The doorman. I didn't stop anywhere."
"We're gonna need you to come with us, Miss Baldwin." Eames stood.
Amy turned, and looked at the officers, the shallow line between her brows the only outward expression of concern. "Need or require?" She asked steadily.
"We'd really appreciate it." Eames deadpanned.
Amy paused. Goren could see the wheels churning. To call the lawyer or not to call, to call or not to call. . . Although it had been his partner who spoke, she looked at him when she answered. "Okay. Just let me change. And leave that alone." She said sharply as Bobby laid his hand on a badly painted vase. "It's not even mine."