Free Rise of a Phoenix: Rise of a Phoenix by phill syron-jones Page A

spied Steel heading for her as he got out of the elevator. She braced herself for the inevitable question of
    ‘Why did you not tell me about the latest death?’. But if he wanted to be included, she reasoned, he had to be there all the time, not just when it suited him. He arrived at her desk and sat down without a word.
    “OK,” she felt the urge to apologize.
    “I’m sorry we didn’t come and find you, but when it all kicked off we had to leave quickly.” The speech was quick and speedy, as if what she had to say was too embarrassing to say slowly.
    “No problem,” he said. “In your position I would have done the same, if I want to be included on this case I have to be here all the time, and not just when it suits me.”
    She looked at him with a look of utter disbelief. Had he just read her mind? Confusion had knocked her off balance, as she stumbled through a quick briefing on what they had just found. He just smiled and handed her a coffee he had just bought from a coffee shop nearby.
    “Thanks.” Shocked by his kind gesture, she took a sip of the coffee, and a burst of aromatic goodness flushed through her system. Oh my God, that’s good , she thought, but did not wish to let on.
    “So what have you been up to—?” she stopped herself in mid-sentence, not wanting to go on.
    “Do you really want to know or are you just saying that?” he asked.
    “Not really.” Her eyes shot back to the paperwork as he smiled to himself.
    “Well, you may want to know someone has just filed a missing person’s report which may fit your vic’s description.”
    Her gaze shot up to his face. “Where? When?” He pointed to Tony, who was approaching quickly with a slip of paper.
    “You won’t believe what I just got,” the other detective said smugly.
    “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, looking at Steel, who was busy sipping his cappuccino.
     
     

TWELVE
     
     
     
     
    The Walters’ residence was a penthouse in a massive complex of old stone and large arched windows, a monument to bygone days. The view of Central Park was breathtaking through the large windows of the lounge area. All over the place, marble floors glistened with the touch of the midday sun. McCall looked in awe at the fine furniture everywhere, most of which was probably the same age as the building, if not older. A pretty girl who appeared to be in her late twenties had let them in; her maid’s uniform was a black-and-white all-in-one short dress, the lacy white collar fluffed up around her neck. Her long blonde hair was styled into a bun then crowned with a small white maid’s tiara.
    “Mr Walters, the police are here to see you,” she said, as she ushered them into the large sitting area. Benjamin Walters was sitting on an old heavy-looking chesterfield armchair, its dark leather encrusted with shining brass studs.
    “Please come in, sit down,” he said, rising from his own chair, his hands pointing to the long sofa of the same design. They all sat, and he waved at the girl, asking her to bring them some coffee.
    “I’m Detective McCall and this is Detective Steel,” McCall began.
    “We are here because you reported your wife missing.” Her concern was genuine, fuelled by the very real possibility that she could be the next victim.
    “Yes, she left for a damned wives’ meeting in the Hamptons yesterday and has not been seen since,” Benjamin Walters muttered in a strained voice.
    “I phoned the club to see if she could have stayed over but they said she left early.” He broke down, sobbing into his hand.
    Ignoring him, Steel got up and walked to a marble mantelpiece which surrounded a spectacular fireplace, lifting up a silver-framed photograph that showed Mr Walters and the victim. Steel showed it to the female detective, and she nodded in response.
    “Excuse me, sir, is this your wife?” The English officer said.
    Walters looked confused at first at the question, then he realized why Steel had asked it.
    “Oh