by Tracy Clark
“Right. It’s basic math. Seriously, what’s this all about?”
“Eh, not sure yet. Thanks, Luce.”
I ended the call. Tim’s policy had to have been worth more than a hundred thousand, a lot more. He was an Ayers, after all. That meant his investor’s take would be a considerable amount, but the longer Tim lived, the less he or she got back. What if Sterling Associates had been in line to receive that return? Lucy said it was possible. That would mean Spada had a good motive for wanting Tim to die sooner rather than later. There was no telling how much longer Tim might have lived, were it not for the drowning. Spada, the ultimate businessman, would have been forced to stand by and watch good money fly out the window as Tim held on—and he didn’t strike me as the kind of person who’d take that loss, or any other, easily. What had he said in the elevator? He guaranteed his investors maximum results. He staked his reputation on it.
Chapter 28
In my office, I dug some more on Nick Spada. He’d come back without nary a blemish on my earlier run, but that’s what worried me now. No one Spada’s age who had his wealth and business associations had a closet without a single skeleton rattling around in it. So where was Spada hiding the bones?
I readjusted the search parameters, requested a more detailed report, and left it at that for the time being. About to log off and shut down, I had a thought and searched Fleet Transports, and the building it was housed in. I needed to know who owned the property, because whoever did, the chances were good they also owned Leon. I lucked out. The search came back quick to a single owner: Tavroh Ltd., but there was next to no information on it, except for the name and a P.O. box.
“Well, that bites,” I muttered, tapping a pen on my desk blotter.
Frustrated, I shut the computer down and sat at my desk, watching the phone. Still nothing from Jung. I’d swung by the marina after getting the bum’s rush from Spada, but Jung was nowhere around, and I’d heard nothing new from him or from Marta, which told me Jung was still out there somewhere eluding the both of us. When the phone rang, I snatched up the receiver, hoping for a break.
“Raines Investigations.”
“Robert Felton.”
I frowned, and then pantomimed shooting myself in the head, my finger serving as the muzzle of an imaginary gun. “Yeah?”
“I won’t waste time with insincere pleasantries. Mrs. Ayers would like to meet. Tomorrow morning. Ten AM. Her home. You obviously know where that is.”
I leaned back in my chair, making it squeak, saying nothing for a time. I checked my watch. It was just after three. I’d wasted the entire day riding in elevators and punching computer keys.
“You are still there?” Felton asked, sounding more than a little put-out.
“That sounded an awful lot like a royal summons.”
I could almost feel heat radiating from the phone’s fiber optics. Felton couldn’t stand me, and the feeling was mutual. I didn’t think he was used to being challenged, and since the moment we met, that was all I’d been doing. I wondered if Mrs. Ayers ordered him to call, and like the good little family lawyer, he’d been forced to comply.
“It is a request.” His words were clipped and tight, as brittle as desiccated twigs.
I swiveled back and forth lazily, enjoying myself. “What’s she want to talk about?”
Felton sighed. If he hadn’t been under the employ of the Ayers family, he likely would have told me to go to Hell by now, but he was, and he couldn’t, and we both knew it. I grinned, tapping out a jaunty tune on the carpet with my happy PI feet.
“If the time is not convenient—”
I cut him off. “Will you be there, or will I be meeting with Mrs. Ayers alone?”
There was another hesitation. “Against legal advice, Mrs. Ayers has chosen to speak with you alone.”
I hung on the line, taking a great deal of satisfaction in Felton’s discomfort. I let the silence sit there, knowing it was killing him by degrees. I didn’t much like being called for, but if this was the only shot I had at talking to Tim’s mother, I had to take it. I leaned forward in the chair, my elbows on the desk. I could hear Felton working on his next coronary. He couldn’t go back to Elizabeth Ayers without an answer one way or the other. He had been retained to solve problems for the family, not create them.
“Tomorrow. Ten,” I said finally, and then I hung up on him before he had a chance to hang up on me. I took my simple pleasures where I could find them.
* * *
I punched the intercom button on the Ayers gate at five to ten the next morning, but before I could announce myself, the gate slid quietly open and the same high-brow voice I’d spoken to my first visit instructed me to pull in and follow the winding driveway up to the main house. I expected the trip to be short, but the drive kept going, past leafy trees and manicured bushes, past luscious flowers in full bloom. Suddenly the enchanted forest cleared and I hit a circular drive layered in oyster pebbles, a working fountain in its center, the gravel popping and crunching under my city tires. Before I even had time to come to a full stop under the Ayerses’ stark white portico, front doors wide enough to get a Chevy truck through opened. A stiff-looking man stepped out and stood waiting, statuelike, beside a large Grecian column. His hands by his side, his eyes tracking my every move, he registered nothing on his long, gaunt face. He looked old, really old, but he stood straight, his black suit freshly pressed, his hard-soled shoes shined to a fare-thee-well. I’d worn jeans and was likely way underdressed, but I didn’t much care. I was here for information, not to impress anybody.
I met the old man at the portico, besting him by a few inches. “Good morning, Ms. Raines. I’m Boykin. Follow me, please?” He swept a thin arm toward the doors, not bothering to look back to see if I was following along. I was, but not before pressing my key fob to engage the alarm on my car. I was a city girl. I didn’t know these people.
I was led along an immaculate marble floor glossy enough to see my reflection in, until Boykin stopped at another set of double doors. “Mrs. Ayers will join you in the library. Please make yourself comfortable.”
No smile. No eye twinkle. I assumed he was human and not a robot, but I had no outward evidence of that fact. I stepped inside, then turned and watched Boykin back himself out, taking the doors with him. The ceiling was high and molded, the room long and Versailles-like. For want of anything better to do, I strolled around, reading the titles on the bookshelves, scanning the gilded tchotchkes on the end tables. There was a fireplace big enough to roast an elephant, if one were inclined to do such a thing, and on the mantel stood family photos in sterling-silver frames. I drew closer to study them, hoping to learn something of the Ayers family dynamic. I easily recognized Tim from his photo in the papers. He stood with his family: the disagreeable Stephen, I assumed; a woman who must have been Mrs. Ayers; a stern-looking old man, who had to be the late patriarch of the clan. Everyone looked unhappy and resigned, hard to say which was worse. I picked one of the photos up to look at it more closely, paying special attention to Tim. Resignation was worse, I decided.
The doors opened and I turned to see Mrs. Ayers standing in the doorway. I put the photograph back on the mantel and stood waiting for her to enter. She wore pearls and heels, and her golden hair streaked with wisps of gray looked like swirls of vanilla ice cream on top of a very pale cone. Maybe she was in her early fifties, but it was hard to tell when it appeared every cosmetic effort had been made in an attempt to turn back time. Icy blue eyes took a full and thorough assessment. I stood there, letting her get a good look.
“Ms. Raines.”
She glided over to a chair covered in fine gold linen with lion’s paws at the arms and legs, her dress swishing as she went. “Please sit.”
I took a seat on the expensive couch across from her, the two of us separated by a glass table with nothing on it, not even a finger smudge.
“Coffee? Tea?”
“No. Thank you.”
But the doors opene
d, anyway, and Boykin entered carrying a silver tray with a teapot and china cups on it. He set the tray on the table and proceeded to pour Mrs. Ayers a cup of tea, setting it neatly beside her on a dainty saucer. She ignored the cup. She ignored Boykin. She appeared to be waiting for something. I politely declined Boykin’s offer of tea and he quietly slipped out of the room again, closing the doors. Ayers reached for the cup, took a sip, ignoring me, then set the cup down and folded steady hands in her lap.
“How much?” she asked.
I was sure I’d heard her right, but I asked, anyway. “Excuse me?”
“How much to stop this ridiculous intrusion into my son’s death? I assume money is what this is about?” She searched my face, no expression on hers. “I’ve shocked you, it appears. I’m a forthright woman. We’re both adults. Let’s not be coy. It’s always about money, so give me your figure.”
I watched her. I could tell she was used to getting what she wanted, when she wanted it, and cost was obviously no consideration. How many people did her bidding? I wondered. Felton, obviously. Boykin, assuredly. Stephen? Tim? Money could buy a lot of things—fealty, silence, protection, love, or its facsimile—but not me.
I stood. “I guess that would depend on how much you’d pay to see your son’s killer go free.”
She looked up at me. “My son was weak. He killed himself, bringing shame on our family. Those are the facts. Now, name a figure or I will terminate this meeting and let things take their natural course. But before you speak again, know this. I’m very rarely denied satisfaction. I’ve grown quite accustomed to getting what I want.”
I nodded, holding her gaze. “Not today. Not with me.”
She drew back as though I’d cuffed her on the chin.
“Where were you the night Tim died?” I asked. “When you heard your son, your boy, was dead?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t so much as blink.
“All right, then, I’ll just talk. I believe Tim might have been killed because he lived too long. Even as I’m saying it, it sounds bizarre, completely sick.” I drew closer to her, and she moved farther back in the chair. It was as far away from me as she could get. “I’ve found a con man who was keeping pretty close tabs on Tim. I think it had something to do with his insurance policy. I believe Tim trusted someone who took advantage of him at his lowest point, and then betrayed him. I don’t have evidence yet to prove that theory, but if there is any, I’ll find it.”
Her porcelain face held no expression as those cold eyes lasered in. I stood there, waiting for a sense of caring to assert itself. She was a mother. Certainly, somewhere, there was some spark of anguish, some flicker of wreckage for the child she’d brought into the world. So I stood there and waited for it, towering over the frozen woman who couldn’t bring herself to break. She was used to making deals, money for service, money for patronage, money for love, but her money wouldn’t work this time. Here, she was going to have to be human and it didn’t look like she was cut out for it. There were no tears. Her ramrod posture didn’t falter. Elizabeth Ayers had gone her entire life like this, I thought. It left little room for affection, for compassion, for Tim. I moved back to the couch and eased into it so that we could begin again.
“Nicholas Spada brokered a deal by which Tim sold his insurance policy for cash—cash he needed after Stephen cut him off. It was to be a short-term deal, seeing as Tim was ill and wouldn’t get better. Only Tim kept going. He kept going well beyond all expectations. I think that’s where the trouble started. Spada claims he’s an old family friend. What can you tell me about his connection to your family?”
“Who hired you to do this?”
I sighed. I hadn’t gotten through at all. “Someone who cared about Tim.”
Her thin lips curled into a snarl. “One of his unsuitable lovers?”
“Does it matter?”
She didn’t move—not a muscle, not an eyelid, not even air it seemed. “Nicholas Spada?” I was holding up well under her withering stare. “You’re going to need more than Felton.”
Her chin rose. “He was an acquaintance of my late husband’s, who filled the occasional foursome. We did not socialize.”
“He led me to believe you traveled in the same circles. He said that’s why Tim likely came to him.”
I hadn’t thought it possible, but the hardness in her gaze got even harder. “He wouldn’t be the first to claim such a thing. We’re an old, established family. Nicholas Spada owned gas stations or storage facilities—nothing professional, nothing of consequence.” She twisted her lips distastefully, signifying Spada’s humble beginnings were an affront to her refined sensibilities. “Although he’s apparently managed to elevate himself well above his station.”
My eyes wandered around the well-appointed room. “So money alone doesn’t buy entry into all this?”
“There’s breeding, lineage. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly. Spada lacks pedigree. He’s good enough to fill out a foursome, not good enough to hang with the cool kids.” Ayers gave me no reaction at all. I’d gotten used to it.
“He’s a businessman,” I said. “He strikes me as being very ambitious, very hungry for recognition, status. He’d want to get Tim’s deal done as promised. You know him better than I do. Is he the kind of man, the ambitious kind, who’d kill to better his bottom line?”
Mrs. Ayers rose in one seamless motion, like a queen from her throne. “You have a most active imagination. You’ve invented this entire theory out of magic thread and fun-house mirrors. Timothy was much too smart to be taken in by someone like Nicholas Spada.”
“Your husband did business with him. How smart was he?”
“The man insured our horses, some of our lower staff. He never handled any of our important business.”
“But your son had no other choice.”
She shot me a warning look, but I’d swear I saw a slight break in the ice. “Nicholas Spada wouldn’t dare touch a hair on my son’s head.”
“Maybe, besides the money he stood to lose, that’s why he did it. Maybe he didn’t care much what happened to Tim. Tim was a member of an old, established family. A family that shunned him socially, one that thought so little of him that they’d only let him insure their horses.”
Her eyes shifted, but she held herself straight as an arrow. I could tell, though, that she followed the logic, that she could imagine the upwardly mobile Spada doing such a thing, and not giving it a second thought. Killing Tim, dragging the Ayers family name through the papers, would be the ultimate payback for being frozen out of the Ayerses’ inner circle.
“Money and hate,” I said. “Those are things people kill over.”
She moved behind the chair, held on to the top of it, her fingers digging into the upholstery. There was a spark of something in the ice. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
“I’m wondering if maybe Stephen was somehow involved, too. The brothers weren’t close, I’ve learned. And, strangely, Stephen made a rather interesting visit to the marina before Tim died. He told everyone there that Tim suffered from depression, though I could find no evidence of that. He told the police the same thing. Did you know?
“You don’t have to believe me. The investigating detective on Tim’s case can corroborate. Detective Marta Pena. Look her up. The lies, and they were lies, sound like Stephen was laying the groundwork for murder, diverting attention from the actual motive for Tim’s death by painting him as a prime candidate for suicide. Maybe he did that to help Spada. Maybe he did it to help himself. Even people from fine families have resorted to fratricide.”
Not one single muscle seemed to move in Elizabeth Ayers’s entire body. I’d have thought her made of marble, were it not for the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in and out. Slowly she began to grin. She squared her shoulders, and again lifted her patrician chin defiantly. “It’s been a while since I’ve been involved in a good fight. Felton will be very happy.”
She moved back around to the front of the chair, sat again. “I’ll ruin you if you even think about repeating such a thing.”
“Do you know where Stephen was the night Tim died?” She stared at me, her face blank. It was as if she’d already checked out. “And, again, where were you?”
Elizabeth Ayers pushed a small button on the side of her chair, then stood, clasping her hands in front of her. Boykin appeared at the door. He was my confirmation that the visit was over.
“My son and I were in New York on business. Felton handled the details in our stead.”
“‘The details’? Tim, you mean?”
She rose. “You do realize that I can make things very uncomfortable for you?”
I stood, buttoned my jacket. “More uncomfortable than this?”
She glided out of the room, disappeared down the hall. Boykin saw me out, ushering me through the doors and back out to the portico. My car was where I left it, and seeing it again was like reuniting with an old friend. The sun felt warm, welcoming. I was thrilled to be out of the icehouse.
Chapter 29
The stink of smoke and the wail of fire engines pulled me off my painter’s ladder at two AM Sunday morning. The trucks sounded close. I padded to the front windows in the second-floor apartment to see red lights flashing, black smoke billowing up, and my car on fire. Two hook and ladders had blocked the street, onlookers watching from the curb, as hoses shot water through the car’s busted-out windows. I blinked, stared, not believing what I was seeing. My car. My car. I ran for the stairs, bounded out of the front door right into a huddle of gawkers, seemingly mesmerized by the angry flames. I fought my way through to the curb, my eyes on the smoke, my nose burning with the stench of toxic rubber and plastic.
“Stand back, lady, this thing is still blazin’,” a cop yelled when I got too close.
“That’s my car,” I shouted, fighting to be heard over the murmurs of the crowd and the force of the water hoses, the rumble of the trucks.