A Killer's Kiss (17 page)

So why didn’t I charge up to the bastard, grab him by the lapels, butt him in the chest like an irate French soccer player, and call him a liar?

Because he would have denied it, in a whining, plaintive voice that would have set my teeth on edge and my ears to bleeding. Because I couldn’t have proved it, not yet at least. Because I didn’t understand what it was all about or what it had to do with Wren Denniston’s murder or what happened to the money, and I didn’t think it advisable to spook him before I had some answers. But I now knew one thing for sure, if I hadn’t known it already.

Clarence Swift was the enemy, deadly or not, I couldn’t yet tell, but without doubt the enemy.

“So we done roaming and ready to get down to getting me my money?” said Derek as I stalked away from Swift & Son while Derek followed on my heels.

“I’m going back to the office now,” I said. “You can fill in the tax forms there.”

“I been thinking about that tax thing, and I got to tell you, bo, it’s not such a good idea. Really, why bring the tax man in on our business and get all legal on me?”

“Because I’m a lawyer, Derek. You know, if your income is low enough, you might get money back from the government. Filing your taxes could provide a financial windfall.”

“But it’s the principle of the thing, know what I mean?”

“Unfortunately, I think that I do. Now, could you do me a favor and let me think for a bit?”

“Sure can. I don’t mean to be messing with your mind.”

“Thank you.”

“But what I was—”

“Derek.”

“I only mean—”

“Derek.”

“Okay, bo. I can take a hint.”

“Good.”

“It’s just that…”

He kept talking. That was just the way he was built, but I tuned him out as I tried to figure what the hell was going on.

Why had Wren Denniston invented Miles Cave? To create a partnership for Gregor Trocek’s money. Why do that? The only answer was that he had planned to steal the money from the start. I’d bet almost anything that the date of the partnership’s creation was after Wren discovered the embezzlement in Taipei that killed the hedge fund and caused Inner Circle’s collapse. Gregor needed a vehicle to invest his illegal cash. Wren created it, all the while plotting to steal the cash and leave Gregor searching for the mysterious Miles Cave. And how much did Clarence know about it? Probably everything.

Did the missing money have anything to do with Wren Denniston’s murder? I’d bet yes—one point seven mil is a lot of mo
tive—but then who pulled the trigger? Gregor Trocek, who put the money up in the first place? He was still searching for Miles Cave, he’d been duped, maybe he’d found out what had happened and decided to get some revenge before he found the cash. Or maybe it was someone who knew where the money had gone to. Someone like Julia? But she had an alibi. Someone like Clarence Swift? Who had created the partnership? Who was probably in on the scheme from the start? Who was lying to everyone to protect his secret?

Clarence Swift.

Right now I’d bet it was that sleazy little weasel who had tipped off the cops that I’d been out of my apartment the night of the murder when in fact I’d been in all night. Who had tipped off Gregor from a pay phone that I was the one who knew where his money was hiding. Who had created that letter from Miles Cave and then put my address and a signature that seemingly matched mine onto it. That’s why he had closed his briefcase as soon as I came in my office door, he had pilfered a letter from my desk to get his specimen. And I knew just how the son of a bitch had slipped the bogus letter into the Inner Circle file.

He was setting me up, trying to deflect the blame from himself, trying to yoke a collar around my neck while he waltzed off with the prize.

There were enough permutations to give a mathematician a headache, but the whole thing made sense, sort of. I could believe I had figured it all out, sort of. Except for the part about Clarence doing the shooting. He was a small, twisted little man, but Clarence Swift, with his bow ties and dusty old office, with his diffident manner and false humility, didn’t seem like the type that would kill over money. I had seen the Dylan Klebold in him and so I believed he could kill, but money didn’t seem to power his engine. Then what did?

I found the answer sitting in plain sight on top of my desk.

Derek was up front, waiting as Ellie prepared the tax forms
and receipt for him to sign. I was sitting behind my desk, still puzzling over it all, when I idly started paging through a file. It was the file I had gotten from Inner Circle, the file that contained all the letters of complaint. It was a sad file, full of sad letters from those who had suffered great losses, the kind of file that lawyers find great joy in, because it contains the possibility of great profit. And I was trying to find the joy in there when Derek showed up at my office door.

“I filled out them forms,” he said. “Signed them, too.”

I closed the file and looked up at him.

“I still don’t like the idea,” he said. “It doesn’t seem right somehow.”

“Hand them over.”

He handed them over, I gave them a quick scan. It was all official, and signed, just like he said. I took the forms and put them into my desk drawer. Then I pulled out my wallet and counted one hundred and ninety dollars. I held the bills out to him, he took hold, but I didn’t let go.

“You did a good job, Derek,” I said. “You earned this.”

“Fine, bo.”

“You can be proud of the work you did.”

“Thanks.”

Pause.

“You going to let it loose so I can be on my way,” he said, “or am I going to have to cut off your hand?”

“It’s just that I want you to know that you can do something real with your life. You don’t have to dance on the wrong side with your boys on the corner.”

“I told you I was just hanging.”

“Maybe, but hanging often turns into something else. And then you’re just being used by a bunch of creeps who don’t give a damn about anything but their business.”

“Is the lecture a necessary part of it? Is that another requirement along with the tax forms?”

“I’m just saying.”

“I know what you’re saying. But I don’t think there’s a great demand outside of this office for my detecting services, know what I mean?”

“You don’t know, Derek. Get some training, find an entry-level job with a PI firm. I could help you get started. You just don’t know.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know.”

He gave a yank. I let go. He loosed a bright smile as he stuffed the wad into a pocket. “Thanks, bo.”

Just as he turned to leave, I noticed it. On the outside of the file that was sitting on my desk. The printing. Made by hand. All capital letters. “COMPLAINT LETTERS.” Just two words, but they reminded me of something. And when I looked close, I could see it. The way the
L
looped. The way the
S
curved. It all came together like a thunderclap.

“Hey, Derek,” I said before he was out the door. “You busy tonight?”

He stopped, leaned back into the office. “Not really.”

“I might have another job for you.”

“My usual rates?”

“Sure.”

“Thirty an hour.”

“It was twenty-five.”

“But that was before I got all this detecting experience.”

“Okay.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Fine.”

“Beautiful. So what do you need from me?”

I opened a desk drawer, pulled out a small brick of electronics, tossed it to him.

“This is a mini tape recorder. I want you to go to the store and buy some mini tapes that fit. And then I want you to spend some time and figure out how the damn thing works.”

It was a neat little Cape Cod, white and freshly painted, in a neat little neighborhood in Haddonfield, New Jersey. The lawn was well cared for, the perennials beneath the dogwood were neatly weeded, there was a cat in the window. The cat was gray and fluffy, and it eyed me with evident suspicion. Smart cat.

I knocked on the door.

“Not a word until I give the go-ahead, all right?” I said as Derek and I stood side by side and waited.

“I got it, bo.”

“Just follow my instructions and do as we planned.”

“I heard you the first three times.”

“Good. This is tricky stuff. The timing is all.”

“Now, don’t go insulting my timing. My timing is impeccable.”

“Impeccable?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Let’s hope so.”

I knocked again. We could hear footsteps from inside the house, the cat jumped off the sill, the door opened. The wide face at the door peered at me blankly for a moment and then froze with surprise.

“Hello, Margaret,” I said to the secretary from the Inner Circle Investments offices, who had made the copies of the complaint letters for me. She was wearing a print dress and sturdy shoes and held a dish towel in one hand.

“Mr. Carl,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my friend Derek. Do you have a moment to speak to us?”

“Not really.”

“We just have some questions.”

She glanced quickly at Derek and then back at me. “I’m sure Mr. Nettles can answer all your questions. He’ll be in the office tomorrow morning.”

“We don’t want to talk to Mr. Nettles,” I said. “We want to talk to you. Do you mind if we come in?”

She looked at me, then down to her cat, who was twisted within the twin pillars that were her legs and showing me its teeth. I showed mine back.

“Yes, I do mind,” she said. She leaned forward and glanced up and down the street. “You shouldn’t be here. How did you find my address?”

“Have you started planning your wedding yet, Margaret?” I said.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Does Mr. Nettles know who your fiancé is?”

“My private life is my own, Mr. Carl. Now, please leave, or I will have to call the police.”

“You won’t call the police, you’re too smart for that. You don’t want them sniffing around, asking questions. You do know that bankruptcy fraud is a federal crime, don’t you?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Does Mr. Nettles know that you’ve been engaged to Dr. Denniston’s personal lawyer all the while you’ve been working for him? Does Mr. Nettles know that your fiancé drafted a legal agreement for Miles Cave, the investor he has the FBI out searching for? Does Mr. Nettles know that you are slipping fraudulent letters from that selfsame Miles Cave into Inner Circle’s files?”

“What do you want?” she said, her face a stony mass of anger. I’d seen softer peaks in the Alps.

“We just want to come inside,” I said, “and maybe have some tea.”

The house was spotless, and her knuckles were raw to prove it. While she was in the kitchen making the tea, I checked out the living room. I would have thought it would be filled with knickknacks and sentimental doilies, but it was bright and clean and uncluttered. I stepped over to a shelf with a few photographs in frames. Margaret standing stiffly with Clarence. A young Margaret with a rather formal family. And then a few pictures of Margaret dancing, in all her finery, dipping low in the arms of some slick-haired lothario, the line of her stout body suddenly elegant and long. There was a harsh edge to Margaret, except in the pictures of her dancing, where her face was suffused with a soft joy.

“How many years have you been dancing?” I said as we were situated in the living room and she was pouring. The tea she served was Darjeeling, the cookies were sugar.

“Since I was a girl,” she said. “I had stopped for years before I found the club.”

“From the pictures, I can tell you love it.”

“It’s a place where I can forget about things.”

“What things?” I said.

She looked at me levelly. “Can we get on with this?”

“Okay,” I said, picking up my teacup, taking a sip. Hot, rich, and florid, like a ripe bunch of daffodils. “We only have a couple of questions.”

Right then Derek took out a small tape recorder and pressed a few buttons, then a few buttons more, grunting a bit until he got the thing to work. He laid it on the coffee table beside the pot of tea.

“What’s that?” she said.

“Just a tape recorder,” said Derek. “I only got hold of it today, so I’m still trying to figure it out. You don’t mind, do you, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.” She turned to me. “Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe I ought to call Clarence.”

“Put it away, Derek,” I said. “That’s totally unnecessary. We’re merely having a friendly little chat.”

Derek shook his head as he picked up the tape player, clicked a few more buttons, and put the player back in his pocket.

“Better?” I said.

“No.”

“We were talking about Miles Cave and his money.”

“Were we?”

“We are now. What do you know of him?”

She paused for an instant to bite her lip. “I’ve seen his name in the records.”

“Did he ever come into the office?”

“Not that I remember.” She scrunched her face, as if considering. She glanced at Derek and then said, “But there were letters, and he did call occasionally. I always put him right through to Dr. Denniston.”

“Do you know anything about him? Where he is?”

“No.”

“Anything you know of a personal nature would be of much interest. Anything?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are.”

“You mind if I take a cookie?” said Derek.

“Help yourself,” said Margaret.

“I noticed the picture of you and Mr. Swift,” I said. “You make a lovely couple. How long have you been engaged?”

“Seven years now.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Clarence doesn’t like to rush into things.”

“Are you as cautious as he is?”

“I think it’s wise to be sure.”

“Seven years is a lot of wisdom.”

“I love him very much,” she said with a flat sincerity.

“That’s sweet. How’d you kids meet?”

“Dr. Denniston introduced us. At the time I was working as a secretary in his medical office.”

“What kind of cookie is this?” said Derek.

“Sugar.”

“It’s good. Can I have another?”

“Take two,” said Margaret. “Clarence and I are very happy together, Mr. Carl. We’re very much in love, and we’ve been quite busy making plans.”

“For your wedding?”

“And other things, yes.”

“Do you have a wedding date?”

“Not yet,” she said. “But we’re very close to working things out.”

“And I suppose Edna is quite happy with everything.”

“Edna?” She worked at a tooth with her tongue for a moment, as if suddenly in pain. “Hardly.”

“No? Why not?”

“She has plans for Clarence. Plans that don’t include me.”

I looked at her for a moment, blankly. From the similarity in features, I had assumed that Edna and Margaret were somehow related. “I’m surprised that his secretary takes such a personal interest in her boss.”

“She’s not just his secretary Mr. Carl, she’s also his mother.”

“Ahh, yes, I forgot,” I said, trying not to gag on my tea. I raised the cup to her as if in a toast. “Well, I wish you both the best.”

“Thank you.”

“Who deposited the checks that came in to Inner Circle? Did Dr. Denniston do it himself, or did he entrust you with that task?”

“He trusted me completely.”

“And you received all the bank records.”

“Yes.”

“And reviewed them.”

“That was part of my job.”

“How about Mr. Cave’s investment? Did you take care of that, too?”

“Dr. Denniston took care of Mr. Cave’s investment himself.”

“Did you notice the deposit on one of the bank statements?”

“I don’t recall.”

“It was over a million dollars.”

“We had a lot of large investments.”

“Not that large, I dare say, and not that late in the game. Has Mr. Nettles asked about that deposit?”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t been able to find it, have you?”

“We’re still looking.”

“And the subsequent withdrawal.”

“The company’s records are all clear.”

“Of course they are. But Mr. Nettles mentioned discrepancies with the bank statements, and I assumed he was referring to Mr. Cave’s deposit. Was it usual for your investors to pay in cash?”

“Oh, no. There was always either a check or the money was wired.”

“What about Mr. Cave’s investment? Could that have been in cash?”

“I don’t know. I never saw a check, but like I said, Dr. Denniston took complete care of Mr. Cave’s investment.”

“And if the cash was somewhere, not in the bank, you wouldn’t know where it is.”

“What are you implying, Mr. Carl?”

“I’m looking for Miles Cave. Actually, to be more precise, I’m looking for Miles Cave’s money. Do you have any idea where I should start my search?”

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry.” Pause. More thinking. It was like a tectonic shift as Margaret creased her features. “But I believe I heard that Mr. Cave doesn’t live here. He lives on the West Coast or something, if that helps.”

“And he wears sunglasses,” I said.

“How should I know that?”

“Exactly.” I put down my tea, stood up. “Thank you, Margaret, I won’t take up any more of your time. The tea was delicious.”

Her pinched face relaxed a bit. “It was actually nice to have a visitor.”

“Clarence doesn’t come over?”

“Oh, occasionally. He likes when I cook him a good steak dinner. Recently I’ve been getting the meat delivered straight from the Midwest. I keep it in the freezer Clarence bought me.” Margaret bit her lower lip. “But usually we meet for dinners in town after work, or we would go out with the Dennistons before…well, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I miss Dr. Denniston, Mr. Carl. He was very good to me.”

“And Mrs. Denniston, too, I suppose.”

“Not really,” she said.

“You don’t like Mrs. Denniston much?”

“Dr. Denniston was a kind man, but his life went awry the moment he met his wife.”

“And you blame her?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Where’s the freezer?” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“The freezer Clarence bought you?”

“In the basement.”

“Big, is it?”

“Not really.”

“I mean the freezer, not the basement.”

“Neither.”

“You mind I take another cookie?” said Derek.

“Didn’t you eat?” I said.

“Not since lunch, bo.”

“Then I’ll drop you off at a diner.”

“Just asking for a cookie.”

“Take the rest,” said Margaret, offering the plate, her craggy face breaking into a slight smile.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, giving me a look as he stood.

“Did you have difficulties with Mrs. Denniston?” I said.

“She must have, bo,” said Derek, cutting in as he stuffed cookies into his pocket. “Calling her a slagheap and a bangster. You don’t write that to your pals. But one thing I was wondering. What exactly is a bangster? Slagheap I can figure, but bangster? That’s a new one on me.”

I looked at Derek for a moment like he was the biggest idiot in the universe and then turned to Margaret, who was standing stock-still with shock, her eyes staring out with the horror of discovery, our discovery, as if we had opened the bathroom door and seen her naked.

“I assume it’s bad,” said Derek. “Not as bad as witch’s cunt, or is it?”

“Get out,” said Margaret, her voice steely cold.

“I didn’t mean nothing by it—”

“Get out,” she said.

“Derek, why don’t you leave us alone for a little bit,” I said.

Derek looked hurt and hangdog. Then he reached over and took the last cookie before heading out the door. When the door closed behind him, Margaret’s face seemed to crack, like a mountain collapsing.

I sat down again, picked up my teacup, took a sip, and waited.