Page 63 of Murder on the Upper East Side

She shook her head slowly back and forth. Hannah very well might have killed Madison. But casting her as the mastermind behindThe Upper Edgewas sheer idiocy. Wasn’t it?

‘One more thing.’ Detective Crews retrieved his phone from the desk, pulled up another screenshot. This was a classic post – the last in the photo series of poor Gemma Phipps. The mysterious Prescott boy could be seen reflected in the background, taking the picture.

‘The comments make it clear that Madison and those close to her fanned the flames repeatedly when these pictures were shared. We know the woman is Gemma Phipps. Who’s this?’ He tapped at the image of the male figure, his identity as mysterious now as it had been a decade ago.

‘I can tell you who itisn’t– Theo Fitzgerald. He was in love with Elle, and what happened to him was a smear campaign. Madison got high on terrorising Gemma, and Theo got caught in the crossfire.’

It had been more complicated than that, of course. She’d been one of the few let in on the full story, eventually – much to her own frustration. But the detectives didn’t need to know every detail of her past.

‘If not Theo, then who?’ Detective Crews pressed.

‘You’re asking me a whole lot of questions I don’t have the answers to. But if I was in a gambling mood, I’d say the person in that picture is probably here tonight.’

Detective Wellesley leaned in. ‘Why’s that?’

She shrugged. ‘Just a hunch. Great turnout from the Class of 2017, what with Bash and Madison co-hosting the gala.’

The cops shared a silent look. Detective Wellesley nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Detective Crews pulled up a final image on his phone. Bash, leaning against the wall in the first-floor hallway, as Beatrice had seen him do a thousand times during their years at Prescott.

‘Did Sebastian Beaumont ever wear glasses? For vision correction, or perhaps as a stylistic choice?’

‘Bash?No.’ Beatrice felt the past catching up to her, socking her right in the chest. When the Gemma photos had been released, there had been endless speculation over the frames just visible on the male figure. Along with the Prescott blazer and cufflinks, they’d been one of the main ‘clues’ tying the boy in the photo to Theo. It had all been such bullshit.

‘Are you sure?’ Detective Wellesley asked.

‘Entirely. Bash slept around, but he never slept with Gemma. I would have known. If you have questions about Gemma Phipps, you’re looking at the wrong Beaumont.’

One year ago

Beatrice sat, as she had many times over the past few months, in one of a pair of deep armchairs pulled up to a low, marble-topped coffee table in Bash’s executive office at Beaumont Capital. The real estate empire, housed in a restored pre-war building with a sweeping view of Central Park, was newly Bash’s domain. For years, he’d been shut out of the company, the boys’ father never providing a satisfactory explanation for passing over his younger son while Edward had been allowed to rise swiftly to the C-suite. Then Richard had died suddenly and shockingly the year prior, a helicopter crash while vacationing on Lake Como. Bash had mourned him, then eagerly stepped into his shoes.

Beatrice bit into a lukewarm spring roll – they’d ordered Thai an hour ago, and half-full takeout containers sat open on the coffee table – and watched deep frown lines cross her friend’s face. In the months following Richard Beaumont’s death, seemingly as soon as Bash had gotten settled at the helm, and barely settled at that, Edward had stepped down as CFO, leaving Bash to fend for himself while he assumed a new role on Wall Street. Keeping the multi-million-dollar company running at its prior volume – without his father, without Edward – had been a challenge, to say the least. While her friend struggled to learn the industry, an entirely avoidable hurdle, if onlyRichard had brought him in sooner, a larger problem had begun to loom.

The finances were an indecipherable mess, regularly scheduled transfers going in and out of accounts that, from anything Bash could tell, had never been reported to the IRS. There was no shortage of money, but there was something almost certainly nefarious about the unreported transactions. Something that could come crashing down on Bash’s head at any moment, and he’d be powerless to protect himself or Beaumont Capital if he didn’t know what the fuck was going on. And Edward, the former CFO, remained maddeningly tight-lipped.

Beatrice had listened to Bash’s increasingly escalating anxieties – and the ensuing rants – repeatedly over the past weeks, all too familiar with the inner workings of his brain. But her father had long since ceased to serve as Beaumont Capital’s attorney, his practice shifting focus nearly a decade ago, and she had no personal investment in Bash’s business dealings. Thank god, because this shit was a mess.

But for all his faults, Bash was still her best friend. And she was his main source of moral support. Beatrice surveyed the massive walnut executive desk facing the windows, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind, and the seating area she was currently occupying. It looked different here at night, the rest of the employees long gone and Bash frowning alternately at his laptop screen, then at a notebook open on his desk, against which he repeatedly tapped a blackMontblanc pen. He’d removed his jacket hours ago; his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. On the desk were stacks of file folders, manila envelopes, and a fireproof lock box for which Bash had yet to locate the key.

He let out a frustrated sigh, then shoved back from the desk, heavy roller chair knocking against the bookshelves and sending a framed photograph of the Beaumonts, taken years ago on a yachting trip, clattering to the floor.

‘Can you please make yourself useful? The key to the safe must be somewhere in this office. Or failing that, find me a drill.’

Beatrice sat back in her chair, treating Bash to a withering look.

‘I will always love you, but there’s no way in hell. You know I never get my hands dirty.’

‘Fuck!’ Bash stood and slammed his hand down on a stack of files, sending papers flying.

‘Call your brother,’ Beatrice said for the second time tonight. Edward had managed the company’s finances. Whatever back-channel operations were going down at Beaumont Capital, Edward had the answers. ‘He can’t freeze you out for ever. Call him again.’

Bash snatched his phone from the desk, stabbed at Edward’s contact. After three rings, he picked up.

‘We need to talk,’ Bash growled. ‘In person.’

‘I warned you.’ Beatrice could hear Edward’s voice loud and clear. Bash had the volume cranked up. ‘You wanted this. You’ve always wanted this.’

‘You left me high and dry,’ Bash accused. ‘We need to meet. Right away.’