Our Fathers (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  "You don't like money and revenge?"

  "Revenge for something that happened twenty years ago? I don't think so. Matt didn't even know he'd done anything. You'll never get them to swallow that one."

  "And the money?"

  "No. I know there are people who'd kill for less, but you don't kill your brother for what you already have. I'm financially comfortable. I'm not a big spender, I have no debts, my business is sound. In short, I don't need the money."

  "Do you think a jury would see it that way?"

  "Why shouldn't they? And besides, that's all irrelevant. I didn't know my brother had any money, let alone that I'd inherit."

  Harry sat back, as if defeated. "Well, if you don't like those motives, I guess we'll be forced to use the real one."

  Robert looked down, focusing on the package in his hand.

  "I have a problem here, Mr. Carlsberg. I tried to give you a choice of motives, but you don't think they'll hold. Now, I have to deal with the District Attorney, and he'll probably agree with you. If he has to prosecute this in court, he's going to insist on something that's backed up by evidence. Something he can wave in the jury's face. You can see which one he'll go for. After all, you went to a lot of trouble to keep those things from being found. You were caught running away, with them in one hand and a gun in the other. Things like that impress juries."

  Robert looked up, but his eyes darted from one spot to another as he considered. Finally he said, "My father was a son-of-a-bitch." He stopped as if that explained it all. Then, slowly, he went on. "Especially to Matt and me. About the time we got into high school. I think he just ignored us up until then. But once we got into our teens, nothing we did was right. He didn't criticize. He never said we could do better. He wasn't one of those who expect their sons to be perfect. Just the opposite. Whatever we did, or wanted to do, whatever was important to us, was just something to laugh at, to look down on. He was really good at it. Even when you knew you were right, there was no way to get around that sneer. He didn't even have to say anything. If we did something really good, he'd give us that look and it all turned trivial."

  A new thought made him turn to Chervenic. "You don't think I killed him, do you?"

  "Oh, no. You did burn the shed though, didn't you? Someone told me a shed behind the store was burned. They thought Matt had done it."

  "Oh, that. Matt didn't do it. I think Matt tried to embarrass him by being the school bad boy. Getting into trouble. I think he stopped when he found it didn't do any good. The old bastard didn't care what we did."

  "So you torched the shed?"

  Robert shrugged. "It was childish. It was just that he seemed invulnerable. There was no way to hurt him."

  "Then you found out about him and Mrs. Hanover. How did that happen?"

  "By accident. It was a Saturday. I was working on the delivery truck. It was close to noon, so we were going to get some lunch. As we drove by, I saw him going into this apartment house. I wondered who lived there. Later, I went back and checked the mailboxes and saw Roy Hanover's name. Everybody knew he ate lunch out on the loading dock. He never went home for lunch. For the rest of the week, I left school around eleven and watched the place. I saw him again, twice. Each time he was in there for about an hour. When he came out, he stopped at the top of the steps and checked the street, very slowly. I remember him standing there, straightening his tie, his eyes moving along the street, so God damned full of himself. I really think he wanted someone to see him."

  He stopped, reluctant to continue. Harry prompted him. "So you started writing the letters."

  "I didn't kill my father. Roy Hanover did it."

  Harry paused, knowing he had come to the delicate part. Almost as an aside, he asked, "What was in them?"

  Robert went back to staring at the package, the sick look coming back. Without looking up he asked, "How did you know about the letters?"

  "The detective who was there when Hanover killed himself tried to get him to talk. Sometimes it works. He asked him how he had known about his wife and your father. He said he had the letters. The police assumed they were letters one of them had written to the other. That bothered me. Something was wrong with it. I asked myself, Why would they write letters? They saw each other several times a week. I suppose they could have, but Frank Carlsberg didn't sound like the kind who would write love letters. And if she wrote them, he wasn't the kind who would keep them. So where did the letters come from? That gnawed at me a long time."

  "It was so long ago," said Robert. "I was young. They were stupid. They were…" His voice was low and trailed off to nothing. He clearly didn't want to talk about it, but was making an effort. "The first one was very short. It just asked who was messing up his bed while he was off working."

  "You remember them after all this time?"

  Robert glanced quickly up, then back to his lap. "Yes."

  How many times, Harry wondered, had he gone back over them in his mind after his father's death? He'll probably never forget them.

  "And the second?"

  He didn't answer for what seemed a long time. His eyes were down, almost closed. When he finally spoke, Harry had to listen closely to hear. "That's the one my daughter mustn't see. I made things up. I described what they did, how they did it. You know."

  I'll bet I do, thought Harry. Whatever the introverted, hormone-driven imagination of a twenty-two year old could think of. How much had it gotten to Roy Hanover? He had already heard the stories about his wife. The first letter would set him up. The second would bring him to a boil.

  "You knew about Hanover working that guy over because he'd said something about his wife?"

  "Everybody knew about it. I thought he'd do it again. I swear that's all I wanted. In the third letter, I told him who it was and when they did it. I expected him to come into the office and just beat the hell out of that…That's all I wanted. I didn't think he'd…do that."

  "Kill your father and then himself."

  "He must have been crazy. Why else would he do that?"

  "Did you ever wonder what became of the letters?"

  "Of course. I thought about it all the time. I thought that maybe Matt had them. He worked with Hanover on the loading dock on Saturdays. They were pretty close. I thought he might have showed them to Matt. Then Matt left and we didn't hear anything from him. After a while I stopped thinking about it."

  "But then Matt came back. What happened then?"

  There was no answer.

  "Well then, " said Harry, "if you won't tell me, I'll tell you. How about that?" He leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. "You saw Matt at your sister's house. He was sitting on the couch, talking to the kids. The talk came around to him leaving them something in his will. One of them, Ben I believe, asked him what he would leave them. Now, this is the important part. He said they were paper, and about so big, and there'd be one for each of them. Ben asked him if it was money. He said no, but they might be valuable, depending on what they did with them."

  "That bastard. Do you know what that son-of-a-bitch brother of mine did? When he said that about them being valuable, he looked over at me. And he smiled. He smiled at me. God damn him!"

  "So you knew what he was talking about."

  "Of course I knew. He was going to give those letters to them. To my daughter, too. You know which one he'd have given her. And he was inviting them to blackmail me with them."

  "That must have been quite a shock," said Harry. When there was no answer he went on. "It's a long drive to Asheville. Plenty of time to think about it, to imagine the effect those letters would have, your daughter reading that stuff. Then all that time at the conference, trying to keep your mind on the meetings and presentations, wondering what was going on back here. And then, finally, the drive home, deciding to have it out with him. Did you go home first, or go straight to the beach?"

  No answer.

  "I vote for straight to the beach. No reason to stop. You find the house, see the lights on, but the
re's a party going on across the street, and people sitting out on the porch. You go on past, park down a ways where it's dark, go down to the beach and come in that way. How am I doing so far? Was he surprised when you came in from the beach? Or just glad to see you?"

  No answer.

  "I suppose after driving all that way, you didn't waste any time getting to the point. But how would he react to it? How did he?" He peered at Robert as if expecting an answer, then said, "I'll bet he looked puzzled, as if he didn't know what you were talking about. Am I right?"

  Robert's gaze came up and flared. "That's right. And he smiled again, just like before. He smiled. That who-me, innocent smile. I tried being reasonable—I did everything I could. You can't blame this on me. I asked him, as my brother, to give me the letters. They were mine, for God's sake."

  "And what did he say to that?"

  "He laughed. Not out loud. Quietly, to himself, his head down, hugging himself. He was literally doubled over, holding his sides. He staggered over to the desk and fell into the chair, his body heaving with it. He was crazy. Why would he laugh like that? I knew it was no good. He'd never give them to me."

  Robert had stopped, so Harry asked quickly, "What happened then?"

  Robert gazed ahead of him, puzzled. "I'm not sure," he said. "I don't remember much about that." He saw Harry looking at him strangely. "It's true," he insisted. "I don't remember all of it." His voice went high, with an hysterical edge. "He opened the desk drawer and reached in. I thought for a second it might be for the letters, but they weren't there. And I saw the knife. He was trying to get something from the drawer, and laughing and laughing, never making a sound, and I had the knife, and my arm was up and…"

  Harry felt the horror, could almost see it like a mist around him. It numbed him, triggering again the memory of that last scene with his son. There was the fog in his brain, the fury rising from his stomach, his shoulder muscles bunching, the animal sound he made as he swung his fist, the shock on his son's face as he fell. And most of all, his son sitting on the floor, looking up at him. And the coldness of that face.

  "He was on the floor, his hands moving at his chest. And blood. Everything was blood. It was everywhere, on my hands and shirt, everywhere. And then he wasn't moving anymore, and I knew he was dead." His eyes were staring, seeing only what had been. "You can tell when someone is dead, can't you? They're—different."

  Carlsberg stood up, Harry slowly following. "I didn't mean to. I never meant to." He brought his fist down hard on the rough railing, yelling, "There was no intent. No intent. It was him. He pushed and pushed. What did he expect? What the hell did he expect?" He looked straight at Harry, his eyes desperate for understanding. "You know what he was doing. He was going to ruin me—and for nothing. What sick pleasure did he get from it? What gave him the right?" He looked back down, and asked again, quietly, "What gave him the right? Oh no, it was him. I am not going to take the blame for this."

  Harry let the silence hang there for several seconds, then said, "I understand. I think you'd better give me the gun."

  "No, I can't. You understand."

  "What choice is there? There's no other way."

  Robert raised the gun a little, as if it now had a use. "There's one."

  "What good would that do?"

  "There's a way."

  "Mr. Carlsberg, there aren't any letters in there." Harry could see the disbelief, added, "He bought stock options. That's what he left."

  "Then where are the letters?"

  "There aren't any letters."

  Robert was momentarily confused. Then his eyes narrowed, his mouth in that almost-smile. "No good, Chervenic."

  "I swear."

  "She mustn't see these. Ever."

  "There aren't any letters."

  "You're lying."

  Carlsberg drew himself up, his mind made up.

  Harry tensed, wanting to rush, knowing he mustn't.

  Mickie's gun rose slowly to level at Robert's chest.

  Robert took a step backward. Harry followed, and stopped when the gun came up close to his face. Robert shouted, "I'll kill us both."

  Mickie's gun came to the straight-armed, held-in-both-hands firing position.

  Without looking back, Harry held up his hand to stop her. "No," he shouted, "No."

  Robert took another step back. "I'll kill you now. I swear to God, I will."

  "Mickie. Lower your gun. Down to your side. Now." He didn't look around, but could tell from the other man's eyes that she had.

  "God damn you, Chervenic."

  "She's not your executioner."

  They all stood frozen. Then Carlsberg was running, away from them, arms pumping, toward the end of the pier. Harry started after him, but was losing ground. Mickie, with the speed of youth, went past him, but had started too far back. By the time she pulled up at the end, Carlsberg had climbed over the rail. He leaned back over the water, held by one hand on the rail. The other hand still held the package tight against his chest. The gun had been dropped along the way.

  "Stay back," he yelled. "Get away from me."

  Mickie held up both hands in surrender, even though one of them still held the automatic. "This is no good, Mr. Carlsberg."

  He glanced down at the water surging thirty feet below him, then back to her. His expression relaxed for a moment, and Mickie thought she had never seen a face so full of sadness. He said, "Nothing is any good, is it?" He closed his eyes, crossed both arms tightly across his chest, and launched himself backward.

  As Mickie started over the rail, Harry's meaty hand grabbed her collar. "No," he said. "He'd just pull you under with him."

  They were looking down at the water, green and frothy in the lights from the pier, heaving in, then gathering itself for another surge.

  "I've got to try," she said.

  "No," said Harry. "If he comes up, we'll both go in."

  They continued watching, nearly hypnotized by the garishly lighted water swirling about the pilings. Something appeared deeper down, moving slowly upward. Mickie tensed, ready to act, then relaxed as a small rectangle of silver bobbed to the surface.

  CHAPTER 25

  Harry sat at his desk, fishing through a bunch of keys, finally unlocking and opening the top drawer. He took out a handful of things and laid them on a space he had created by pushing other things to one side.

  There was a small stack of papers, each folded twice, just as he had taken them from their duct tape cocoon. Beside them was the leather notebook he had found in Matt Carlsberg's desk. He stared at them, thinking they should lift his spirits. They didn't, though. He still felt rotten. The papers, at least, would be good news to someone.

  Mickie stopped as she came through the door. She seemed to be staring at him. He gave her a sour look back. She perched on the corner of her desk, facing him.

  "Why?" she asked.

  "Why, what?"

  "You know what. Why did he do it?"

  Harry shrugged. "Go off the pier? I guess he couldn't see any other way. He couldn't face the ruin, the humiliation. He couldn't face his daughter. I guess he thought he could take these papers with him. Either way, he didn't want to live."

  "He wanted me to do it for him."

  "This job is tough enough. You don't need that."

  "I almost did it." She glanced toward the relatively clear spot on his desk. "Are those the ones?"

  Harry nodded.

  "Those are the options?"

  He picked one up and unfolded it. "Nope. It's just the name, address and phone number of the broker you found. The treasure hunters were supposed to find these papers and call her. Then she'd tell them she was holding stock options in their names—a hundred grand apiece."

  He refolded the paper, put it back with the others. "By the way, just what are stock options? You talked to her."

  "According to her," said Mickie, "they're a gamble. It's sort of complicated, but if I got it right, you don't actually buy any stock. The option just gives you th
e right to buy the stock at a certain price for a certain length of time. In this case, the options expire at the end of the year. On December 31 they turn into pumpkins. Anyway, the bottom line is this. If the stocks these options represent should go down, or just stay the same price, the options expire worthless."

  "So they'd get nothing."

  "Not unless they resell the options for whatever they can get before the expiration date."

  "And if the stock prices go up?"

  "Then they make a whole lot of money. Big win or big loss."

  "How are they doing so far? Did she say?"

  "Up a little. Hard to tell. Actually, he bought options on several stocks. Less risky that way. She said she'd heard rumors about two of them as takeover targets. That always pushes the prices way up. If it happens, the value of the options will go crazy."

  "Lucky picks?"

  "She didn't say so right out, but she thinks he had information he wasn't supposed to have. He had friends somewhere."

  "Insider stuff?"

  "I guess. What can they do, prosecute him?"

  Mickie came over to his desk and spread out the pile of folded papers. A name was written on the outside of each paper. "There are four of them."

  Harry glanced down at them. "Yes. Ben, Christy, Diane and, would you believe, Terry Eason."

  "I wonder why him. They hardly knew each other."

  Harry shook his head. "Who knows? When you've got that much money and you're about to swallow a bottle of pills, I guess you can do whatever you want."

  He picked up the four papers, and handed them to her. "Get these put away. We can tell the lucky four about them in the morning."

  He was about to drop the notebook back in the drawer, when he stopped in mid motion, a small smile twitching his mouth. "I'll bet that's it."

  Mickie raised her eyebrows at him. "What?"

  "Just something that was bothering me." He put the notebook into the drawer and closed it. "Something in there had been scratched out, very thoroughly. I wondered what it was, that's all. Now I think it was the broker's name and number. He didn't want us, or maybe Stoneman, finding it before the kids could finish their quest. Crafty bastard thought of everything. Well, almost everything."