Too Many Murders

by Colleen McCullough

  “Delia? Dig out our security clearances, there’s a good girl. Keep yours with you, and send mine over here right now. I’d rather not get arrested on a federal warrant, it’s too hard to find a Get Out of Jail card.”

  He hung up on the squawks, grinning, then dialed again. “Danny? The Feds are here, and I smell something rotten in the state of Cornucopia. Tell Silvestri he might have a harder fight on his hands than we expected. Now put me back to Delia.”

  She had stopped squawking. “Your credentials are on their way,” she said briskly, “and mine are in my handbag right next to my Saturday night special. What else, Captain?”

  “Corey and Abe should be wheeling a filing cabinet into County Services any minute. It’s a big bone of contention, Delia, and we may not win the fight to keep it. The moment it arrives, I want it put in my office and as many photocopiers as our power supply will stand put in there too. Get all the girls out of the typing pool and put them to photocopying the contents”—he grinned—“faster than your cat can lick her ear. Said contents, I add, are for your and my eyes only.”

  “What about the girls?” she asked anxiously.

  “I don’t think we need to worry about them. They’ll be working too fast to notice what they’re copying.”

  “And,” she said, catching on, “they’re dear girls, but they wouldn’t know a polymer chain from a chain reaction.”

  “Exactly.”

  And that should do it, he thought, putting the receiver down again. Just get the filing cabinet back to County Services, guys! It’s a myth that big men are slow, but here’s hoping I caught Mr. Ted Kelly on the wrong size-seventeen. By the time he remembers that he could snatch it en route, he’ll be too late. I hope the cabinet doesn’t do my Fairlane’s backseat much harm.

  They looked like ordinary offices. Carmine walked from room to room noting the usual paraphernalia: desks, chairs, typewriters, telex and Xerox machines, calculators. Then, fascinated, he found two small rooms whose desks were filled by massive consoles he recognized only because sometimes he was called upon to visit Chubb’s computers, rented out to firms and institutions when Chubb didn’t need them. These were just such computer terminals, so somewhere in the bowels of the building there existed an arctically air-conditioned vault occupied by the computers themselves. It made sense that Cornucopia would have its own computer banks.

  The police rope was confined to Desmond Skeps’s properly walled domain only, about half the space the floor offered. On the far side of his wall were more offices that continued to function, and in less salubrious surroundings. Grey panels fenced people off into cubicles about chest-high, obliging each denizen to stand up to see out and about. Today there was a lot of standing up; nerves, probably. In the far corner he found a larger office, fully enclosed, that bore a sign saying it was the lair of one M. D. Sykes. When he opened the door he discovered a small, middle-aged man behind a desk that dwarfed him.

  “Captain Carmine Delmonico, Holloman Police. What does the M.D. stand for, sir, and what’s your function?”

  Terrified, the little fellow rose to his feet, fell back again, gulped and swallowed. “Michael Donald Sykes,” he said, squeaking. “I’m the general manager of Cornucopia Central.”

  “Which is?”

  “The central firm, Captain. The one that oversees all the other Cornucopia firms. They are its subsidiaries,” said Mr. Sykes, finding courage.

  “I see. Does that mean that, for example, Landmark Machines doesn’t own itself? That Cornucopia owns it?”

  “Yes, it does. No Cornucopia firm has much autonomy.”

  “So you’re in charge, now that Mr. Skeps is dead?”

  The round face screwed up as if about to burst into tears. “Oh, no, Captain, no! I occupy a limbo somewhere between middle and top management. Mr. Philip Smith is senior vice-president and a nominal managing director. I imagine that he will assume command.”

  “Then where do I find Mr. Philip Smith?”

  “One floor down. His office is directly under Mr. Skeps’s—the view, you understand.”

  “Plus the key to the executive washroom?”

  “Mr. Smith has his own washroom.”

  Wow! said Carmine, but silently. He took the elevator down a floor, followed the signs and was intercepted by an elderly, beautifully dressed woman who looked him up and down as if he’d come about the janitor’s job before she reluctantly agreed that he could see Mr. Smith.

  His office had that same wonderful two-sided view, but no telescope. Philip Smith himself was tall and suave, immaculately tailored in grey silk, and sported a tie Carmine had heard about but never seen: the pure silk, handmade version of the Chubb produced by an Italian designer. His shirt was French cuffed, his links understated solid gold, and his shoes handmade in St. James’s, London. He was fair and handsome, spoke with a Philadelphia Main Line drawl, and had grey eyes that perpetually hunted for a mirror in which to see himself.

  “Terrible, just awful!” he said to Carmine, offering him a cigar. When Carmine declined, he offered coffee and was accepted.

  “How much of a real difference does the death of Mr. Skeps make to the operation of Cornucopia?” Carmine asked.

  It wasn’t a question Smith had expected; he blinked, had to stop to formulate his answer. “Actually, not a lot,” he said finally. “The day-to-day functioning of the various Cornucopia companies is left to their own management teams. Cornucopia Central is a little like the father of a large brood of children—it does all the things kids can’t do for themselves.”

  You condescending prick, thought Carmine, face politely interested. I should pay you back for that with a couple of hours in a County Services interrogation room, but you’re small potatoes in spite of the wardrobe, Mr. Smith.

  The coffee arrived, and gave Smith a breathing space while the snooty secretary poured—heaven forbid he should pour a cup for himself!

  “Why is there an FBI special agent sniffing around your nether parts, Mr. Smith?” Carmine asked as soon as they were alone again.

  But the nominal managing director was ready for that one. “Inevitable, given the number of our defense contracts,” he said smoothly. “I imagine D.C. and the Pentagon automatically take an interest in the violent death of an important man.”

  “How violent do you think the death of Mr. Skeps was?”

  “Well, er—I don’t know, exactly. One presumes murder to be violent by definition.”

  “When did Mr. Kelly arrive?”

  “Yesterday, midday. Grotesque, isn’t he?”

  “No, Mr. Smith, not grotesque, which implies an unpleasant element. Special Agent Kelly is a particularly fine specimen of man. What did he do after he arrived?”

  “Asked to see Desmond’s penthouse and offices. Naturally we coöperated fully.”

  “Did it not occur to anyone to call Commissioner Silvestri and notify him of an FBI presence in a local murder scene?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “I don’t see why. You’re all on the same side.”

  “Are we? That’s comforting to know. However, if Mr. Kelly took something from either place, the Holloman Police should be told, and were not. If you’re personally aware that anything has gone missing, I suggest you tell me right now.”

  “Uh—apart from Desmond’s personal filing cabinet, nothing,” said Smith uneasily. “He kept it in his walk-in safe, but Mr. Kelly had a key and the combination. There’s nothing in it would interest the Holloman police—too esoteric. The files were all sensitive aspects of our defense contracts. You would not have the necessary security clearances, Captain Delmonico.”

  “You might be surprised, Mr. Smith.”

  Smith laughed derisively. “Oh, come, Captain! You’re a big fish in a very small puddle. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Thank you for the reminder. In the meantime, I’d be grateful if you issued a Board directive to all Cornucopia Central staff to coöperate with me and m
ine.” Carmine rose to his feet. “My thanks for the coffee.” He went across to the Long Island Sound window and looked at his house, frowning. “Now if you seat yourself behind your desk, sir, we can get down to our real business.”

  Smith obeyed, seeming uncomfortable; the suavity had gone.

  “Tell me what you know about Desmond Skeps.”

  “He was detestable,” Smith answered, both hands on the desk palms downward. “I doubt you’ll obtain a different opinion from anyone who knows him—knew him. Though Cornucopia is listed on the stock exchange, Desmond owned a clear majority of the shares, so he could do pretty much as he liked. And he did.”

  “Can you give me an example of his doing as he liked?”

  “Certainly. Cornucopia Research. We all opposed his setting up our own research laboratories, chiefly because our companies span such a gamut of industries, but he insisted. It meant a massive facility with a bill in the hundreds of millions. He was right in one way—we don’t have to go hat in hand to outside labs anymore. The research stays here in Holloman with us. When he stole Duncan MacDougall from PetroBrit, Cornucopia Research was complete. MacDougall is one of the three men in the world who can administer a unit that size. Why am I complaining? Because we’ll never recoup the outlay. Dividends plunged.”

  “Did you associate personally with Mr. Skeps?”

  “Naturally! Far more, however, when he was married to Philomena. Now there was an ideal tycoon’s wife! Educated, beautiful, charming, modest as women should be but rarely are. These days they’re trollops, all of them. Desmond was obsessed with Philomena, especially after Desmond Three was born, but he couldn’t overcome his completely unfounded jealousy. The pool man was her lover, the gardener, the phone technician, even the paperboy. In the end, no man who wanted to keep his job would go near her, and the poor woman had a breakdown. When she came out of it, she left Desmond for good, even though she didn’t have a bean. I respected her, Captain, truly respected her.”

  Carmine glanced briefly at his papers. “I have Mrs. Skeps listed as living in Orleans, Massachusetts, sir. That doesn’t suggest she’s on the breadline. You’re going to have to explain why she didn’t—er—have a bean.”

  “Desmond overstepped the mark when she sued for divorce,” said Philip Smith. “He persecuted her—hired seedy private detectives to hound her, even kidnapped Desmond Three, though she hadn’t denied him access to the child. By the time the case got into court, she had an attorney worth his weight in gold, Anthony Bera. Expressed briefly, she was awarded astronomical alimony and sole custody of Desmond Three. She bought a property in Orleans and sent the boy to the Trinity Grey School last year. Despite her retaining Mr. Bera to watch over her interests, she isn’t a vengeful woman, Captain. Desmond continued to have access to the boy, who hasn’t been poisoned against his father.”

  “I see. How long ago was the divorce?”

  “Five years ago last November.”

  “And has Mr. Skeps had intimate congress with other women since then? Has he a mistress? Girlfriends?”

  Philip Smith looked irritated. “How would I know?”

  “You had plenty of contact with the man.”

  “Not when it came to whom he philandered with, Captain! I am known to disapprove of such activities.” He drew a breath. “Go ask Erica Davenport!”

  Myron’s inamorata! “Why? Is she the likely one?”

  “No, definitely not. That woman’s an iceberg. But she may know the more prurient aspects of Desmond’s life.”

  “Fill me in on the iceberg, Mr. Smith.”

  “This is like being the class tattletale!”

  “Tattle away, Mr. Smith.”

  “Erica is the head of Cornucopia Legal, which oversees the activities, contractual and otherwise, of all Cornucopia.”

  “Define ‘otherwise,’ sir.”

  “Oh, how would I know? Things like verbal indiscretions, potential libels and slanders, compromising behavior in senior personnel.”

  “Wow! Mr. Skeps ran a tight ship.”

  “He had to. We do a lot of business with the Pentagon.”

  “So it would be fair to say that Miss Davenport heads up Cornucopia’s private KGB?”

  “Oh, unkind! She’s a ‘doctor,’ actually. Dr. Erica Davenport. She’s been with us for ten years. Her undergraduate studies were at Smith, in economics, then she went on to Harvard Law. After which she did the customary dreary apprenticeship all lawyers do—at a firm in Boston. When she came to us, we funded her doctorate in corporate law at Chubb. A terrifyingly intelligent woman! She took over Cornucopia Legal from Walter Symonds ten years ago. Those years in Boston were not wasted, Captain. We got a fully polished gem.”

  “Her childhood background, Mr. Smith?”

  “WASP, from Massachusetts—plenty of money in the family.” Smith examined his buffed nails. “She knows all the right people—I was told she was the most beautiful debutante of her year.”

  Where did she fit it all in? Carmine wondered. Debutantes don’t usually end up working for dreary Boston law firms.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Smith. Please remember that, no matter what the federal interest in Cornucopia might be, this is first and foremost a murder investigation.” On his way to the door he paused. “Where will I find Cornucopia Legal?”

  “Right below here.”

  That pecking order again! Clearly Dr. Davenport rated a two-viewed set of windows—unless, of course, the size of her office was considerably reduced.

  It was not. Here there were definite signs of feminine occupancy: vases of spring flowers, delicately pastel paper on the two solid walls, woodwork painted pale green to match the leather upholstery, a pink-hued oriental rug on the blond wood floor. A room that gave an impression of a soft, nice, intensely feminine occupant. Horseshit, thought Carmine. The woman Philip Smith had described ought by rights to be flaunting black leather and chains. Women just didn’t rise to head a segment of Cornucopia without more than their share of cunning, ruthlessness and utter heartlessness. The only person she’d cry for was herself. Poor Myron!

  She was coming to meet him, which gave him a good opportunity to assess her. Yes, the private school princess brought to full bloom. He knew she was born on February 15, 1927, which made her forty years old, but she could have passed for thirty. Of mediumtall height, she moved very gracefully and had a whipcord-slim body atop a pair of extremely shapely legs. The clothes could not be faulted, from the cobalt blue dress with a floating, longish miniskirt to the French shoes with very high heels. The studs in her ears were two-carat diamonds, and the single diamond on a chain around her neck added another four carats. Her streaky blonde hair was cut almost as short as a man’s and combed forward to frame a face of sculpted bones under thick tanned skin; her mouth was red-lipped and full, her nose had a slightly aquiline curve, and her large, open eyes were a cobalt blue reflection of her dress. Here was the queen bee; how had Desmond Skeps managed to dominate her?

  He held his hand out. “Captain Carmine Delmonico, Holloman Police,” he said. At first glance he had begun to revise his opinion of how she had risen to head Cornucopia Legal; a woman this beautiful could do it on her back. Then he encountered her eyes, and dismissed the idea of a horizontal promotion. The ruthlessness, cunning and heartlessness were all there, and well used. She would have despised woman’s wiles, taken on her adversaries with their own weapons.

  Her grip was like a man’s, but brief; she indicated that he should take the client’s chair, and seated herself behind her desk. Erica Davenport would never consciously place herself in any situation where she might lose one iota of her hard-won authority.

  “I believe we have a friend in common,” he said.

  “Myron Mandelbaum? Yes. What a pity I’m barred from meeting him on his own turf, but of course I understand. Who could ever have predicted Desmond’s death?”

  “Who, indeed? Not you, I take it, Dr. Davenport?”

  “No. It came as a terrific sh
ock.”

  “Do you think it’s linked to his business activities?”

  “I have no idea, honestly.”

  “What happens now—on the business front, I mean?”

  “We wait to see what Desmond’s will contains, as he’s the majority shareholder and the virtual owner of Cornucopia.” Like Smith, she studied her nails, which she kept long and lacquered pale pink. Probably not a lesbian, he thought.

  “How long before the will is read?”

  “That depends on his personal lawyers, who are situated in New York City. I believe someone is coming up with all his testamentary papers tomorrow. His son is bound to inherit, and whoever is named as little Des’s guardian at law won’t be in a position to tamper with Desmond’s dispositions.”

  “Even so, I’d appreciate a copy of the will as soon as it’s been read,” Carmine said. He changed tack. “Has anything been different over the past few days, Dr. Davenport? His mood, for example?”

  She frowned, concentrating. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Do you have any idea who the woman in his life is?”

  A laugh. “Oh, that! I don’t believe there was one.”

  “You’re beautiful. It wasn’t you?”

  “No, it certainly wasn’t me,” she said, her tone even. “He didn’t go for blondes, as you’ll find out when you see Mrs. Skeps.”

  “Neither of them married again.”

  “No. Or looked at anyone else, is my theory.”

  “Why is the FBI here?”

  “Our Pentagon contracts, I imagine.”

  “Has it caused trepidation at Cornucopia Legal?”

  Her thin, plucked brows rose. “Why should it? Cornucopia has done nothing wrong. I’m assured the FBI presence is routine.”

  “You don’t strike me as a trusting person.”

  She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “Just a hunch. Have you anything else to tell me?”