The Inheritance (The Donatelli Series)

by SUE FINEMAN

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  The FBI had their fingers in Sunny Banner’s murder case. Negotiations continued as the killer’s attorney tried to plea bargain the charges down so his client wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his natural life in prison. The shooter was the target of another FBI investigation, something the feds weren’t talking about. Gerry knew it could take awhile before any agreements were made, and in the meantime, whoever hired this guy could hire someone else to kill Blade, if he was their intended target.

  In Gerry’s mind, there were two possible scenarios. The first was that Sunny owed someone more money than she could pay, and she’d promised to get that money from Blade. When he wouldn’t pay up, she couldn’t pay her bill, so they killed her. If this was the case, someone knew Blade had money, and they could do something else to get money from him. That meant that no one close to Blade would be safe.

  The second scenario was that Jacobs or someone he was working with had hired the shooter. They used Sunny to throw Blade off guard and then had her killed in front of him to scare him into cooperating. If so, Blade would be a target in New York, and since Jacobs now knew that Blade was married, that made Maria a target, too.

  Gerry knew Blade was trying to clear things up in New York, but he could be signing his own death warrant. On the other hand, Sunny was dead, and the trouble could be over.

  But he wouldn’t count on it.

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  Blade had a lunch meeting in Joe Grafton’s office with Martha Nettles and Gordon Phillips. Gordon had good news to report. “With the two million Blade wired to the company account, we were able to buy back all Colin’s shares.”

  “Which creates another problem,” said Joe. “We’ll have to get a short-term loan to cover the operating budget.”

  “Yes, but we did the right thing,” said Blade. “If we hadn’t bought out Jacobs’ shares, we could have lost control of the company.” They still had to contend with shareholders who owned a substantial chunk of the company stock, but they could handle it, at least for now. This was life in the corporate world.

  Joe Grafton’s assistant came quietly into the room and handed him a note. He stared at it for several seconds before speaking. “Colin Jacobs shot and killed himself in his office about a half-hour ago. He left three letters—one for his wife, one for Gordon, and the other for Blade. The police have taken all three letters.”

  “That’s two,” said Blade, and everyone stared at him. “Someone shot and killed my stepmother a few days ago, and I saw it happen. I don’t know if they meant to kill me or just scare the hell out of me.”

  “That would have done it for me,” said Martha.

  Blade stood. “I want to know what’s in those letters.”

  “So do I,” said Gordon.

  As Blade left Joe’s office, he flipped his phone open and called his driver. And then he called Mort and told him what happened.

  “Aw, shit,” said Mort. “Have your driver pick me up on the way.”

  Mort waited at the curb, briefcase in hand, and it took less than five minutes to get to Jacobs’ office building. A patrol car and crime scene van were parked in front. The driver dropped them off and drove away. With a feeling of dread, Blade rode the elevator upstairs with Mort. They were stopped on Jacobs’ floor by a uniformed cop.

  “I’m Blade Banner and this is my attorney, Mort Schuler. We’d like to speak with whoever is in charge here.”

  “Do you know the deceased?”

  “Yes, we do, and we understand he left a letter for my client,” said Mort. “We have additional information for the person in charge.”

  They were shown to a conference room and the doors closed behind them. Seconds later, a bald man dressed in civilian clothes and wearing a badge walked into the room. “Detective Gil Martin.”

  Mort introduced himself and Blade, and they talked for over an hour about this case and the possible connection to the one in Washington.

  “Maybe they are connected,” said the detective. “On the other hand, Miriam Jacobs tells us that her husband’s health had been declining in recent months. He’d been severely depressed and on medication.”

  “So he was depressed,” said Mort. “Don’t you think there was a reason for that depression? He got himself into something sinister, and if he hired the man who killed Blade’s stepmother, he knew he’d never see the light of day again. I’d shoot myself before putting my family through a murder trial.”

  Blade leaned back in his chair. “Maybe he thought they’d kill him anyway, and he didn’t want to risk the lives of his wife and family. What do the letters say?”

  “The one to his wife was about family, personal affairs, and money.”

  Leaning on the table, Blade asked, “What about the one to me?”

  The officer didn’t answer, and Blade glared at him. He and Mort had been sitting here, trying to cooperate, and this guy was giving them the run-around. Blade had asked several times to see the letter Jacobs wrote to him, and so had Mort. The letter was evidence in a possible suicide, but this jerk could make a photocopy. He didn’t have to touch the original. “I want to see the letter or a copy.”

  Using his cell phone, Blade made another call to Gerry. “We’re getting nowhere here. Can you get me the name and phone number of the fed in charge of Sunny’s murder case?” Watching the detective’s eyes narrow, Blade scribbled the name and phone number on Mort’s legal pad.

  The detective walked out of the room and reappeared with a copy of the letter Jacobs had written to Blade. There were only two short sentences:

  I underestimated you. The company is yours.

  “This is it?” Jacobs didn’t sign the letter, he’d said nothing about Sunny’s murder, and he expressed no regrets about trying to cheat Blade out of his inheritance. There was nothing in the letter to help them understand why Jacobs killed himself or if he’d ordered Sunny’s murder.

  “That’s it,” said the detective.

  “Damn,” Blade muttered under his breath. Jacobs didn’t expect him to catch on. He thought Blade’s fortieth birthday would come and go, and he’d get control of Edward’s estate, including the stock. Jacobs never expected Blade to marry or get involved in the company. And neither did the people Jacobs was working with, whoever they were.

  Before, Blade knew the enemy. Now, Sunny and Jacobs were both dead and he had no idea what to expect next. At this point, he couldn’t even identify the enemy.

  How badly did Hanzer Ships want Banner-Covington?

  Or was something else going on?

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  Blade returned to his hotel and made a series of phone calls, the first to Gerry. He recounted his conversation with the detective. “I don’t know if he thought I was responsible or what.”

  “You’re not responsible for Jacobs’ death, Blade. He killed himself.” Gerry paused for several seconds before asking, “He did kill himself, didn’t he?”

  “It looks that way. He left three letters, and the gun was registered to him.” Blade told him what his letter said. “Whatever he got involved in, he couldn’t get himself out of it, and the more I think about it, the more I know Sunny wasn’t involved. He may have used her to get to me, and she used him to get money to support her drug habit, but Jacobs was too smart to tell her anything of importance.”

  “Do you think he regretted—”

  “I don’t know, Gerry. I just know it had something to do with the possible takeover of Banner-Covington. Maybe he thought they’d come after him, and maybe he had financial trouble. Maybe there was something else going on. I don’t know.”

  “Did you call that phone number?”

  “No. I asked you for the number to push the detective into showing me the letter Jacobs left me.”

  “I suggest you call him and fill him in. The hit man was from LA, but his payment was wired from a bank in New York. Sonny’s killer is still trying to plea bargain to a lesser charge, so I don’t know any more than that.”

  Blade turned co
ld. “Damn! I hoped it was over.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” said Gerry. “Even if Jacobs ordered the hit on Sunny, he didn’t act alone. He and his cohorts waited until your grandfather died to get control of his stock. They thought they had it locked up, and then Jacobs failed to finish the job.”

  They couldn’t get their hands on Edward Banner’s stock now. It belonged to Blade.

  He ended his call to Gerry and called the fed in charge of Sunny’s murder investigation. They talked for several minutes. Blade laid out all his suspicions and talked about Jacobs’ suicide. He even gave the man Lonnie’s phone number. “He’s been doing a little behind the scenes investigating for me about the connection between Sunny Banner and Colin Jacobs. Jacobs told Sunny where to find me. She wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to track someone down, and she wouldn’t have wanted to find me unless she thought I had something to give her. She knew my grandfather had died, and she didn’t see it on the news or read about it in the obituary column. That means Jacobs told her.”

  “Why? Why would he tell her?”

  “She was bleeding him for money to support her expensive drug habit. He wanted to shove her off onto me, so she’d stop bugging him.”

  “Why kill her in front of you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he meant to kill me, too, and maybe they did it to scare me. When you find the person responsible, ask him. Or her,” Blade said, remembering Vanessa Milhauser’s ashen face in the board room that day. “Try Vanessa Milhauser and her stepfather, then work your way down to Anson Baker the third and James Adler. Whatever they have going involves Hanzer Ships. Lonnie thinks it could be diamond smuggling. In any case, they want Banner-Covington for a reason. Find the reason and you’ll find the answers to Jacobs’ suicide and Sunny’s murder.”

  Blade gave the man his cell phone number. “The cops here told me to hang around the city for a few days, but I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll be at the Andrews estate in California for the next few days.” He ended the call, and as he put the phone in the cradle, he spotted something odd on the lamp near the bulb. He’d never seen a listening device before, but he had a sinking feeling that was what it was.

  He changed clothes, searched his suitcase and suit bag to be sure there were no more little bugs in them, packed his things, and walked out the door. In the lobby, he checked out and called his driver.

  After the day he’d had, he should have checked for bugs. Now his enemy knew everything he knew and everything he suspected. Damn!

  At least he hadn’t talked about Uncle Michael. People died in Africa all the time, but the only evidence Blade had found of Father Michael’s death had been a letter from a French nun. Unless Maria packed it, there was nothing from the Catholic Missions people, no letter extolling his dedication to the church and the orphan children of Angola.

  From the car, Blade called the FBI agent in Seattle. “My room was bugged, and I didn’t see it until after I hung up the phone. I didn’t think to check, but then I’m not used to this cloak and dagger stuff.”

  “I’ll get someone on it. Which hotel and what room?”

  Blade gave him the information. “While you’re ‘getting someone on it,’ can you recommend a safe place to stay?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  You do that, thought Blade. You just do that. In that instant, he knew what to do.

  “Where to?” asked the driver.

  “The airport,” said Blade. Or the nearest bar.

  Time to get the hell out of the city.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Blade stood in line at the ticket counter while the man behind the counter checked his computer for flights out. “I can’t get you to San Francisco tonight. How about San Jose? The next flight leaves in about two hours.”

  “I’ll take it.” San Jose would be at least a half-hour more driving time from Cara’s estate, but the flight was non-stop, and he wouldn’t have to sit in the airport all night. He’d always heard that things happened in threes, and there were two people dead. He needed to get out of the city before he became the third.

  He checked his bags, all but the valise, which he carried with him, and called Maria. “I’m at the airport in New York. I couldn’t get a flight to San Francisco, so I’m coming through San Jose. I don’t suppose there’s someone there who can pick me up.” He gave her the flight number and time of arrival.

  “Cara has a driver on staff. I’ll send him.” She hesitated for a few seconds before asking, “Is something wrong? I thought you were staying another day or two.”

  “Yeah, I did, too. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”

  The flight boarded early, and Blade settled in for the long flight. Airplanes always made him a little claustrophobic, even when he flew first class, but flying was the fastest way to get to his destination.

  Thinking of Maria brought feelings he couldn’t identify. He’d never felt this way about another living thing and certainly not about another woman. Was it love? If love meant wanting to sleep with her every night and share his life with her, it must be love, because he wanted that with Maria. The thought of never being with her again, never hearing her laughter or sharing thoughts, and never making love to her again gave him an overwhelming sense of sadness.

  The woman beside him cocked her head, brushed her frosted blond hair off her face, and looked him over good. At one time, he might have been interested, but not now. He’d never met another woman who could measure up to his wife.

  Blade retrieved several letters from the valise, and even though he’d read them all before, he read them again. There had to be something here that he’d missed. What was so important about the letters that Edward kept them in a safe?

  The stewardess brought dinner, and Blade slid the letters into the valise. Every letter was a plea for money. Was there a connection between his uncle and Hanzer Ships? Those stones Blade found in Edward’s home had to be worth millions. How much had Edward sent to that bank in France over the years? Edward’s accountant might know, but Blade didn’t stay in New York long enough to connect with him.

  Edward only owned thirty-seven percent of the stock in Banner-Covington when he died, and Blade assumed he’d owned over half the stock at one time. Had Edward put the company in peril by selling too much stock, so he could send money to Father Michael?

  Had the money really gone to help the orphan children of Angola? Or had someone used the priest to fence those diamonds?

  Sister Bernadette might have the answers, if he could find her. Was she still alive? The letter from her was dated over twenty-five years ago. By his calculations, Michael would be around seventy if he’d lived.

  If only he hadn’t sent those boxes from Father Michael’s rooms with the movers. It might be months before he could get his hands on them.

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  It was after midnight, three in the morning New York time, when Blade arrived in San Jose. The airline had lost his luggage, but he was too tired to care. He filed a report and left with Cara’s driver. At least he didn’t have to drive. Between the stress of being in the city without Maria, facing Jacobs, finding the diamonds and letters and other things in the safes, Jacobs’ suicide, and the bug on the lamp in his hotel room, he’d been wound tight the past few days. Add jet lag and three time zones, and he didn’t trust himself to drive. He had no idea how to find the estate anyway. He’d flown in with Maria.

  He tossed the valise on the backseat, strapped himself in beside the driver, and tipped the seat back. He fell asleep before they were out of the airport maze.

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  The fog of sleep still pinned him to the bed the next morning when Blade heard a little voice say, “Mommy said to let him sleep.”

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “Daisy, no.”

  Something small bounced on the bed and a warm, wet tongue assaulted Blade’s ear. Seconds later, that tongue slurped across his face in a sloppy puppy kiss. He moaned and pushed Daisy away. Before
Blade could pry his eyes open, two kids jumped on the bed. He grabbed the closest one, Andy, rolled him down and tickled. Giggles filled the room. The other one jumped on Blade, so he tickled Jimmy, too. Their laughter made him smile. When he was a kid, he would have given anything to have someone play with him like this.

  Daisy barked and wagged her tail. She wanted to play, too.

  Maria stood in the doorway. “I told you to let him sleep.”

  Jimmy started, “Daisy—”

  “She didn’t mean to,” said Andy.

  Blade laughed. He’d rather have Maria’s tongue in his ear, but it was a nice way to wake up. “Hey, boys, go find Mr. Pettibone and see if he can find me a toothbrush. The airline lost my bags.”

  The kids and their dog bounced off the bed and disappeared.

  Blade hugged Maria and walked toward the bathroom. “I want a kiss, but not until I brush my teeth.”

  “Tough trip?”

  “We’ll talk after I shower.” Maybe she could make some sense out of those letters.

  After Blade went into the bathroom, the boys came to the room with a zippered bag containing a new toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and shaving supplies. “Mr. Pettibone said he could find some clothes if Blade didn’t have any.”

  Maria opened the closet. The clothes Blade had worn the two days before he left on his trip had been laundered and hung in his closet. “He has enough to wear until the airline finds his bags. Where’s Robbie?”

  “He’s talking to Cassie about breakfast.”

  “I don’t know what we’d do without you guys.”

  The kids grinned and took Daisy outside to play on the grass until breakfast. Andy had refused to eat without Blade, so they’d all waited.

  Blade was in the shower when Maria put the shaving kit on the bathroom counter. “Cassie is cooking breakfast.”

  “You don’t want to satisfy my other appetite first?”