August Snow

by Stephen Mack Jones

  “I was raised there,” I said. “Back then it was a great place. I’d like to see it become a great place again.” Then I said, “What’s LifeLight’s installation goal?”

  “The company that makes the streetlamps is a start-up with proprietary technology. It’s going to take some time for them to ramp up production capabilities, but we’re hoping we can have five hundred installed over the next three years. Lots of people out there living in the dark.”

  “Lots of carnivores feeding in the dark,” I said.

  “Plus we’ve got a couple land development proposals in front of city council,” Mayfield continued. “Large-scale urban gardens. Community parks. Wind and solar energy farms. Lots of open land in Detroit these days. Not very surprising considering the population now is about what it was in 1910.”

  “Your idea or Eleanor Paget’s?”

  Mayfield was steely and uncompromising in her clipped answer. “Mine.” Her chocolate brown eyes held me in their command when she added, “When Elle took over the bank from her father—which she had to wrestle from his cold, dead grip—I was one of the first ten new employees here. And the first black. The only original still standing. Elle and I became friends. I was one of the few people that took little to none of her shit, if you’ll pardon my spicy language.”

  “Being half-black and half-Mexican, I’m quite the fan of spicy language,” I said.

  As we walked down the long, wide hallway, everyone we passed nodded deferentially and said, “Ms. Mayfield.”

  We reached a set of tall, brushed steel doors framed in rosewood. Mayfield pushed through the doors and took a seat behind the large rosewood desk. She gestured for me to sit in one of the two high-back red leather chairs.

  “Mr. Atchison’s office?” I said, looking around and admiring the décor.

  “Mine,” Mayfield said. She nodded to another set of tall, brushed steel doors to her left. “His office is through there.”

  Upon closer inspection, there were signs that this was indeed Mayfield’s office: Photos of her smiling and being embraced by Eleanor Paget. Photos of Mayfield with the new mayor of Detroit, the governor and Presidents Barak Obama, Bush-43, Bill and Hillary Clinton. There were ornately scrolled citations from the most recent mayor, the governor and the presidents of Wayne State University, University of Detroit and Madonna University. And there were two large framed watercolor paintings directly behind her desk. Vivian Paget’s work, I assumed.

  “How’s it feel to be so close to Titan’s heir apparent?” I said.

  She laughed. “There were heir apparents before him,” she said. “And there will be heir apparents after him. I’ve signed the checks paying for their office remodels. And I’ve signed the checks for the movers who have ushered them unceremoniously out. Eleanor went through presidents, vice presidents, CIOs, COOs, directors and managers like a fat man goes through a bag of M&Ms.” She smiled. “I, Mr. Snow, am the only constant.”

  I asked her about former employees and if any of them had been problematic upon their departure.

  Mayfield, looking in full command behind her desk, said, “There have been a couple of lawsuits. Settled quickly, quietly and for sums that were regained within the first hour of the next trading day. The others have gone on to other private wealth management organizations. Two months here at Titan, whether they were fired or not, is considered quite prestigious to like firms. And some consider hiring a former TSIG executive a joyous middle-finger to us.” Then Mayfield paused, grinned and said, “Have we been enjoying a friendly conversation, Mr. Snow? Or perhaps an interrogation?”

  “Bit of both, I suppose,” I said. “My apologies.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Her desk phone rang and she answered it.

  Titan’s fair-haired boy was on his way.

  Twenty-One

  Tall, trim, athletically built and Hollywood-handsome, Kip Atchison strode into Rose Mayfield’s office smiling a multimillion dollar smile. He extended his manicured hand and we shook.

  “Mr. Snow,” he said. His suit made me feel like I was wearing a burlap sack. Atchison was the magnificently dressed icon for youth, affluence and power. “I apologize for running late.”

  “No problem,” I said, flashing my own dashing grin. “I’ve been enjoying Ms. Mayfield’s company.”

  He laughed, glanced at Rose Mayfield and said, “Well, I’m glad somebody enjoys her company! She’s a real taskmaster. Sometimes I do everything I can to avoid her just so she doesn’t run me ragged.”

  “Which reminds me,” Mayfield said, “you’ve got dinner with Fred Dunn and Greg Stafford tonight at seven, Detroit Athletic Club—”

  “Cancel it. Tell ’em to get their kneepads on next week.”

  “And,” Mayfield continued, “a presentation prep for the Garrett Trust acquisition—”

  “Garrett Trust,” Atchison said under his breath. “What an oxymoron—”

  “Either way,” Mayfield said, forging professionally forward, “they’ll be here Thursday. I’ve already flown in lobster from Goose Rocks to make them feel a bit more—”

  “Save the lobster for our acquisitions team,” Atchison said calmly. “Get those Garrett pissants Subway. Six inch, not twelve. No fuckin’ chips.”

  He took long, self-assured strides and I followed him toward the tall brushed metal doors to the left of Rose Mayfield’s office.

  Mayfield’s office was stunning in its space and tasteful appointments. But it was a small anteroom compared to Atchison’s office, which was at least three times the size. It afforded a panoramic view of the Detroit city skyline, the meandering Detroit River and Detroit’s Canadian neighbor to the south, Windsor, Ontario.

  Garish abstract paintings hung on the walls, along with a dramatic black-and-white photo of Atchison’s stunning wife and two perfect young children. The photo was the kind you’d see in a successful suburban dentist’s office: cover-model white people huddled closely together, all exposing radiant white teeth.

  “I understand you have some considerable assets, Mr. Snow,” Atchison said as we traversed the expanse of his office. “Ever think about a wealth management firm like us?”

  “I’m old fashioned,” I said. “My money’s in a mattress.”

  “Mattresses won’t get you three point five APR. And travel bonus points. We’ve got a really fabulous special this quarter: open a two-mil minimum balance savings, checking or investment account and get a two-year Land Rover LR4 lease on us. Something to think about, right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, unconvinced.

  There was a marble fireplace, full bar, large wall-mounted flat-screen TV and assorted other entertainment electronics. And there was his desk: a long oval glass-top desk with glass Corinthian pillar legs. On the desk were three large computer screens, each monitoring the worldwide heartbeat of money.

  Near the bar was an electric guitar on a stand and a small amplifier.

  Atchison saw me looking. “Recognize that guitar?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “Ever see that movie Back to the Future?” he said. I nodded. I had, a long time ago with my father. “That’s the guitar Marty McFly played! Not a replica, but the real thing! Erlewine Chiquita travel guitar. Single humbucker and volume control, Schaller Honduran mahogany bridge, rosewood pickup. You play?”

  “No,” I said. “You?”

  “No,” Atchison said. “But that movie? Wow! Best movie ever. Classic! Marty McFly is kind of a hero of mine.”

  “It’s good to have heroes,” I said, struggling to contain my sarcasm.

  “Have a seat.” Atchison gestured to an ultra-modern taupe-colored leather sofa with brushed nickel buttons. He took off his suit coat and casually tossed it across the back of a matching taupe leather armchair facing his desk. He proceeded to loosen his tie, unbutton his shirtsleeves and fold them up.

  America’s Working Man Hero.

  He took a seat on the sofa, making a sound that sugge
sted he hadn’t sat for quite some time. Then, clapping his hands once, said, “Rosey offer you anything? Coffee? Tea? Maybe a juice or Red Bull?”

  “She did,” I said. “Nothing for me.”

  “Hey, Rosey!” he suddenly shouted. Mayfield entered the office seemingly unfazed by Atchison’s frat-boy familiarity. Having worked for and befriended Eleanor Paget, I had the feeling it took a lot more than an Atchison type to set a quiver through her inestimable foundation. “Be a dear and get me a double-shot capp and a chocolate chip biscotti, would you?”

  “I will get you a half-caff cappuccino and a low-fat yogurt with berries,” Mayfield said.

  “Jesus, Rosey—” Atchison whined like the child he very nearly was.

  “You’ve already had three double-shot cappuccinos, five chocolate chip biscotti and God only knows what else this morning,” Mayfield said. “You may call that ‘breakfast.’ I call it a heart attack waiting to happen.”

  “Fine,” Atchison grumbled, turning to me and adding, “See what abuse I endure?”

  “See what lunacy I suffer?” Mayfield said before leaving.

  “Okay,” Atchison said, again clapping his hands once. I imagined his single handclap was a way of controlling his apparent ADHD. “Eleanor Paget. Great lady. Unfortunate death. Police say suicide. You not so much. How can I help you with any of this, Mr. Snow?”

  I briefly wondered how he knew I didn’t think she’d killed herself, but decided to file that question away for another time.

  “Just a couple questions,” I said. “Nothing official.”

  “Of course.”

  His multimillion dollar grin just would not go away and I began to find it patronizing and sanctimonious. It’s been my experience that most people who grin this much are either insane, professional liars or vampires. I was beginning to suspect that Atchison might be a hybrid of these.

  I emphasized that I was no longer a cop. That this was strictly personal and he had every right to toss me out of his panorama of windows and watch me fall. I gave him an idea of the relationship I had with Eleanor Paget and that in my visit with her, days before her death, she had expressed concerns about her bank’s current operations.

  I left out details concerning the coroner’s autopsy and the fact that the FBI was at this very moment crawling around inside the bank’s computer system.

  Atchison’s sandy blond eyebrows furrowed. He looked intently at me, nodding at each bullet point I ticked off.

  “Only six people had all-access security passes to Paget’s house,” I finally said. “Aaron Spiegelman, your CFO and president of the bank’s board of directors. Dr. Harrison Henshaw, director of Detroit Children’s Hospital. Dr. Marleen Clarvineau, a curator at the DIA. Paget’s personal attorney out of Chicago. Ms. Mayfield and you. Dr. Henshaw was out of town at a thoracic surgery conference in Atlanta. Her personal attorney was on business in New York. And Dr. Clarvineau was in Portland. That leaves you, Mr. Spiegelman and Ms. Mayfield in town and with access.”

  “And of course you checked with the company responsible for her home’s security?” Atchison said, renewing the lease on his perfect grin.

  “Those records can’t be obtained without a court order and, since I’m currently considered lower than a snake’s hairless ass by the Detroit public safety and legal systems, I don’t imagine I’ll ever have access. Besides. There’s no pending case, ergo no need for those records.”

  Rose Mayfield brought a silver tray into Atchison’s office. On the tray was a white mug bearing the TSIG logo with Atchison’s half-caff cappuccino and yogurt. She sat the tray on the coffee table in front of us.

  Atchison scowled at the yogurt and said, “I’ll be shitting all night if I eat that crap.”

  “Yogurt and fruit are good for you,” Mayfield said. She looked at me and smiled. “You’re sure you won’t have anything, Mr. Snow?”

  I shook my head.

  Mayfield glanced at her watch, looked at Atchison and said, “You’ve got the Stafford and Dunn conference call in fifteen minutes.”

  Atchison took a loud slurp of his cappuccino, nodded and told Mayfield he’d like his office door closed behind her. Then he brought his wide, faux-innocent eyes to me. “So you’re pretty much flying solo, on fumes and looking for a place to land.”

  “Pretty much,” I said.

  “Okay,” Atchison said brightly, then did his single handclap again. “Let’s get to it: Aaron Spiegelman worshipped at the feet of Eleanor Paget. She carried him around like a miniature poodle in a Louis Vuitton handbag. In all honesty I’d like him gone within the next three to six months. He’s not a future-guy. I’m a future-guy. He was Eleanor’s little birdie, flying back to her, perching on her finger and chirping about everything he could find out about my initiatives to take this bank into the future.”

  “Those initiatives being?”

  Atchison raised the palm of his right hand to me. “We’ll discuss those in a minute. As to Spiegelman, I’m sure the only person he’s ever wanted to kill is me. Spiegelman’s a wimp who spent his career bowing, kowtowing and taking Eleanor’s orders like a Chinese laundry boy. And Rose Mayfield?” Atchison continued unabated. “She and Eleanor were best friends. They’d have their girl chats, girl giggles, girl arguments. Rose is a legacy employee with a titanium-clad employment contract. She’s a gimme. A well-paid poster child for diversity with no reason to put Eleanor Paget in the ground. So I think you can safely check that one off. And me?” Atchison sat back, threw his arms to his sides and smiled. “What’s my motivation for killing a woman who has given me this?”

  “Word has it she gave you a little bit more than this,” I said.

  For a few seconds, we stared at each other, dueling with our megawatt smiles. Then Atchison said, “Woman could fuck like a porn star. Yeah, I was having an affair with Eleanor. Started two months after I arrived. Her initiation. As I’m sure you may have noticed she was attractive for her age. We understood each other. For people like us there’s no division between business and pleasure. The two are intertwined.”

  I thought about what Tomás had told me about a naked Atchison retrieving a bottle of champagne from Eleanor Paget’s refrigerator.

  “Sure, we had our disagreements,” Atchison said, “but at this level, the future isn’t created by yes-men or sycophants. You ever hear of Elon Musk? I’m the Elon Musk of finance.”

  “Your wife ever meet Eleanor?”

  Atchison laughed. “You’re asking if my wife could’ve killed Eleanor?” He shook his head. “Yeah, she knew Eleanor. And yeah, she knew I was screwing Ellie on occasion. Was she angry or jealous? At the level my wife and I operate, jealousy is an antiquated middle-class morality concept: she knows it takes more than a nice pedigree to achieve and maintain my level of success. Plus—she likes the lake house in Charlevoix that came with my contract.” He sighed, then leaned forward as if daring me to react. “Does any of this upset your particular moral balance or religious compass, Mr. Snow?”

  I shrugged. “What you do with your dick is your business, Mr. Atchison. I could give two shakes of a rat’s ass. I’m just trying to determine if you’re a killer.”

  Atchison’s grin widened. “And?”

  “And,” I said, “I think you were probably breast fed by Ayn Rand, raised by L. Ron Hubbard and educated by Malcolm Forbes. I think you’re a vindictive narcissist deluded by his own self-worth. I think you’re probably capable of killing someone if, in your assessment, they impede your vision of a more powerful future. I also know for a fact that if you did kill Eleanor Paget, I would take you down hard, ugly and fast.”

  Again, we stared at each other for a moment.

  Suddenly Atchison roared with laughter, rolling back on the sofa like a child and clapping vigorously.

  “That was so freakin’ cool! ‘I will take you down hard, ugly and fast,’” he repeated through his laughter. “Mind if I use that for this conference call I’ve got?”

  “It’s trademarked,” I
said.

  He gave me a brief look as if I were serious then, deciding I wasn’t, continued laughing for a few more seconds. He wiped tears from his eyes with a linen napkin from the coffee tray. To be honest, I hadn’t expected to be granted a meeting with Atchison; most killers like as much distance between themselves and their accusers as possible. Which all but confirms their guilt. Then there were egocentric head cases like Atchison who enjoyed a game of chess with their potential executioner.

  “I like you, Mr. Snow,” Atchison said. “Honestly. So let me be completely forthcoming with you: If I’d had Eleanor Paget killed, there wouldn’t have been a body. Not a hair. Not a fiber or DNA. It would have been done with me far away sipping a nicely chilled cocktail in front of twenty witnesses. And a gun? No. Something more—feminine for Ellie. Sleeping pills. Valium overdose. And you, Mr. Snow, would have exactly what you have now: a finger up your nose and a thumb up your ass.”

  I stood. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Atchison.”

  “Jesus! This was fun!” Atchison bounded to his feet. “And think about that Range Rover deal, okay? It’s a great deal! And we’ll double your money within six to eight months. Guaranteed.”

  Twenty-two

  On our way out, Atchison told Rose Mayfield he’d be in the executive conference room and that he expected to be there for the next two hours. She was to have champagne chilled in case the meeting went his way. Which, of course, he fully expected it would.

  Then he clapped once, told me again how fun our meeting was and rushed off to wherever the executive conference room was.

  Mayfield escorted me to the elevator. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Snow,” she said, shaking my hand. “I hope you enjoyed your meeting.”

  “About as much as a root canal.”

  “Welcome to my world.” She smiled. “As for me, it’s been a pleasure.”

  “Same,” I said. The elevator doors opened. I stepped in and held them open with my forearm. I said to Mayfield, “Can’t be much fun.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Thirty years of watching ass-monkeys like Atchison fly in and out of that office while you take their lunch orders,” I said.