by Tracy Clark
I stared at the envelope. It was creased and damp from Jung’s yoga sweat. “What is this?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t open it. Bro code. There was some other stuff, too. We made a deal, if anything happened to either one of us, the other would go in and get, you know, stuff. Personal stuff you don’t want another living soul to see?”
I blinked up at him, so did Swami.
“You know . . . things, maybe, or . . . like . . .your stash . . . or . . . porn?” Jung looked at me, then Swami Rain. “Am I really the only one who knows what I’m talking about here?”
It looked like Swami Rain wanted to clasp his fingers around Jung’s neck. His eyes blazed, and his lips twisted into an angry snarl. I stared at the envelope. “You broke into Tim’s boat for this envelope and porn?”
“I was obligated.”
“And you didn’t toss his place looking for it?”
“Why would I have to? That’s what I’m saying. That was in back of the Fender, where he told me to look. Even in all that mess, I went right to it.”
“What about the painting? I counted seven when I was aboard the Safe Passage, now there are six. I found one in your apartment.” Jung moved away from me; his eyes danced around the room; he began to pace. “I told you Tim left me a painting. I only took what he wanted me to have, and what he told me to take.”
“Where’s the rest of the stuff, then? The porn?”
“I burned it.”
Swami Rain bolted up. “You burned it? What do you mean, you ‘burned it’?”
“Dude! I mean I burned it. Lighter fluid, match, burned it, okay?”
I held up the envelope. “But you didn’t burn this, why?”
Jung turned back to me. “I thought it might be important.” He turned back to Swami. “I knew for sure the porn wasn’t. Look, I didn’t break in. The door was open.” Jung searched my face. “I had to get his personals . . . and the painting. I had to do it on the sneak before Stephen stepped in and moved the boat and got rid of all his stuff.”
I opened the envelope and shook out a folded newspaper clipping with a business card attached to it. The card was Nicholas Spada’s.
“Shit. That’s all that was in there?” Jung asked, leaning over to see. “That’s what I had taped to my bod this whole time?”
“Appears so,” I said.
Jung hovered over me. “I thought there’d be something a lot more interesting, like the number to a Swiss bank account. Why’d he want me to grab this?”
I stared at Spada’s name, and then separated the card from the clipping. I looked up. “Why’d you run here? Why didn’t you go home?”
Jung backed up a little, but didn’t go far. “I started to, but then I got creeped out with all the skulking around. I started to think, what if Tim had something really important in there and somebody killed him for it? If they saw me, maybe they’d figure I had it. I couldn’t take the chance of going back to my place. That’s when I called you. To tell you to go to the marina and find out what happened. If I’d known this was all I had, I would’ve gone home. But I got skeeved out, okay? We could be dealing with some real spy stuff. They can track you by satellite these days. I had to cue you in and then find a place to lay low.”
Swami Rain glowered at Jung. “So you came here?”
“Dude, what is your problem? Where else was I supposed to go? You are my spiritual adviser, aren’t you? I came looking for sanctuary.”
“This isn’t a church, doofus,” Rain shot back. “It’s a yoga studio. I’ve got a wife and kids, for Christ’s sake.” He folded his arms across his chest, seething. “Unbelievable.”
There was a brief, awkward silence, which I gently broke. “Maybe more tea, Swami?”
Swami bit into his lower lip, sneering at Jung, then shot up from his chair, gave me a nod. “Yeah, sure.”
I smiled. “And maybe take the long way back?”
Swami stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Jung stared after him, totally clueless. He’d been willing to jeopardize the man’s well-being for his own safety, but didn’t understand why Swami Rain might not be okay with that. It only proved what I already knew: Jung was book smart, but people dumb.
“What’s with him, huh? I’m the one who could be in danger here, right? I’ve had potential dynamite strapped to me this whole time.”
I shook my head, unfolded the clipping, read it. Below the newspaper story in bold block letters Tim had written a name and put a question mark behind it. Jung leaned in, reading over my shoulder.
“Peter Langham? Who’s that?”
Langham. Spada’s deceased client. The owner of the house Vincent Darby was living in. The article was a short piece on a freak carbon monoxide accident that claimed the life of one elderly man, Langham. The story was made all the more tragic, the reporter noted, because Mr. Langham, the father of four and grandfather to twelve, had been in the late stages of pancreatic cancer and had been given just weeks to live. A faulty furnace had been cited as the cause of the carbon monoxide release. The grainy photo at the top of the piece captured firefighters standing around outside the house, while in the background a crowd of curious onlookers stood and watched. Why would Tim keep this? Hide it? Carbon monoxide. Faulty furnace. I stood up, slipped the clipping and the card into my pocket. “Get your things.”
“What is it? What’d you see?”
“Not sure yet. Let’s go.”
Jung picked up his shoes, grabbed his messenger bag. “Where?”
“I’m turning you over to the police.”
He stopped, dropped the bag. “What? You can’t do that.” “They’re looking for you. I’ll drop you off. You’ll go in, they’ll see that you’re completely clueless, and they’ll let you go and move on. Simple. If you continue to hide from them, they’ll make your life a living hell. Now get your stuff and let’s go.”
“Why can’t I stay here? All I need is a few snacks, some beer.” I eyed the door. “Yeah, about that. You might want to start looking for another spiritual home. I’m afraid you’ve burned your bridges with Swami Rain.”
Chapter 35
Tim, Spada, Darby, Langham—of the four, only Spada was still alive; that either made him the luckiest so-and-so on God’s green earth, or somebody who knew a lot more than he was letting on. I rode the elevator up to his office to find out which was which.
Langham was in his seventies when he died, Tim more than fifty years his junior, hardly running buddies. But they were both Spada clients. That had to be important. I mean, it could be coincidental, but the odds would be extremely high. What couldn’t have been a coincidence was Vince Darby living in Langham’s house. I could see a circle forming. I could feel that I was getting close to something. I stared at the changing numbers above the elevator door, willing the slow car to climb faster, my mind busy.
Langham was terminal, but died from carbon monoxide poisoning, ruled accidental. Tim was terminal, but died by drowning, also ruled accidental, though suicide was suspected. And there was Nicholas Spada and Vince Darby, who stood to make more money the quicker Langham and Ayers died. Had the two figured out a way to make sure their clients passed away sooner rather than later?
Maybe Tim stumbled across something that made him suspicious of the scheme. Why else save the clipping of Langham’s death and attach it to Spada’s card? Why hide it and leave special instructions for Jung to get it? Is that why Tim’s boat was broken into? Had someone been looking for the clipping? If so, that would mean whoever tossed it knew Tim was holding something of value and knew, if found, it’d lead back to them. They’d missed the guitar, obviously, and Jung was able to retrieve it, as he’d promised Tim he would. Had Tim counted on Jung to make the necessary connection?
Would Spada, desperate to make a name for himself, really resort to murder to make his business successful? He was ambitious, hungry, determined. He needed the numbers. He needed the prestige. He was the top seller, after all. A real social climber, that’s how
Elizabeth Ayers portrayed him, but without the necessary pedigree. Maybe Spada thought the money was all he needed; he’d underestimated the importance of lineage and good breeding. Had he taken out his frustrations on Tim?
Or had that been Darby’s job? He was the ex-con, the scammer, murder wasn’t that far a leap, was it? But if the two men were in it together, then why was Darby dead? And why was his body sent to me? I was a nuisance, sure, and I was digging for anything I could find, but I didn’t have anything concrete. Was Darby’s body meant to scare me off?
The elevator opened on Spada’s floor and I walked into his office to find a young woman at the reception desk packing up for the day. She smiled, a bit harried, seemingly anxious to get gone. “May I help you?” She appeared amenable, but I could tell she probably hoped she could be of no assistance and I would soon be on my way. Maybe she had a train to catch or a hot date to get to.
“Is Mr. Spada in?”
The girl gave me a sad little pout, insincere, but she went for it, anyway. “Sorry. He’s gone for the day. Would you like to set up an appointment?” She reached for her computer.
“Will he be in tomorrow?”
She eyed me warily, then pecked around on the keyboard. “He’s got tomorrow blocked off.” She ran a manicured finger down the screen. “The whole week, actually. Is there someone else who might be able to help you? Is this about a policy?”
“I’m looking to purchase a policy, yes.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I can get you in tomorrow at two with Mr. Gilland.”
As I stood there, staffers filed out quickly, briefcases and tote bags swinging. It was quitting time. No time for dawdling. The girl eyed the fleeing staffers longingly.
“You know what? Let me think about that. I don’t have my schedule with me.” I slipped a card from the holder on her desk, tucked it away, smiled. “I’ll call back in the morning. You have a good night.”
I eased out into the hall, bypassed the elevator, and tucked into a corner at the far end, my eyes on Spada’s door. More staffers streamed out, caught the elevator, and disappeared. They probably had no idea what kind of side business their boss was up to. It’d only work if Spada kept the circle small, just him and Darby. Too many deaths, too many accidents all at once, would raise suspicion, but a mishap here, one there, who would catch on?
I perked up when the receptionist trotted out and headed toward the ladies’ room, one last pit stop before hitting the street. When she disappeared, I padded up to the door and slipped inside, moving swiftly past her desk, headed back toward Spada’s personal suite. Where was he? I wondered. He wasn’t planning to be in the office all week. I had no way of knowing if that was normal for him. He could be off on a planned vacation; he could be at a conference or seminar; he could be running for his life. I was halfway down the long hall, my sights on wide double doors at the end with Spada’s name stenciled on them, when the front doors opened behind me, signaling the receptionist’s return.
I ducked into an alcove, squeezing in behind two massive copiers, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps, but she didn’t appear to be coming my way. I waited, crouched low, inhaling toxic toner. I checked my watch. Almost five-thirty. I drummed my fingers against my thighs, itching to get moving. What was the woman doing? Suddenly the lights went out. I rose up a bit, cautiously optimistic.
I heard the front door open, then close, and then I heard the scraping of a key in the lock, followed by eerie silence. I gave it a good thirty seconds more before stepping tentatively out from behind the machines. I looked right, then left. I was alone. I took a moment, breathed deep. I was in, but how was I going to get out? Did the door unlock just as easily from the inside as it locked from the outside? If it didn’t, I’d be found here in the morning without a plausible explanation, and nothing about that ended well for me. I rushed for Spada’s double doors. I’d worry about getting out later.
The corner office had “executive” written all over it, from the gold-plated knickknacks on Spada’s banker’s desk to the rich leather chairs and glass tables. Everything all but screamed, “This is a man who made it!” Had he sat at this very desk and promised the dying and desperate that he would take care of everything, put their minds at ease? Had he then callously gone about having them all dispatched?
I stared at the gold-framed family photos sitting on Spada’s desk. There were four of them and he’d positioned each so that whoever sat across from him in his client chair couldn’t fail to see them. Nick Spada, family man. In one, Spada posed with a woman I assumed was his wife, a striking blonde who looked to be at least twenty years his junior. Second wife? In another photograph, the children, a couple of gangly preteens and two smaller kids, smiled for the camera in their Sunday best, a basket of yellow Lab puppies at their feet. Unfortunately, they would all share in what Spada had coming. I wondered if that would even matter to him when this was all done.
His desk drawers were locked. I tried the file cabinets, too. Locked. I took another glance at my watch. Ten minutes. From my copier crouch to now, ten minutes. I had to move fast and get out of here before security made their rounds. I dug latex gloves out of my back pocket, along with my set of picklocks. The file cabinet was first. This wasn’t legal, but, truthfully, I careened off the legal path the second I cruised past the reception desk and ducked behind the copiers. And as far as illegalities stacked up, mine versus the ones I had a strong suspicion Spada may have committed, murder trumped criminal trespass all the livelong day.
The lock wasn’t complicated. It took seconds. I quickly scanned the hanging files inside, looking for anything with Tim’s or Langham’s name on it or anything having to do with accidental deaths. I moved swiftly, but thoroughly, through every file, every drawer, but after I got through them all, there didn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary. There was just standard insurance paperwork—claims, policies—nothing relating to death and dying. I slid behind Spada’s desk, sinking into the butter-smooth leather, luxuriating in the feel for a second, noting my time on Spada’s expensive-looking colonial desk clock. Twenty-two minutes. It felt like twenty-two years. My hands were sweating inside the latex gloves.
I stared at the desk. It was one of those heavy antique jobs built to impress, but built well. If I forced the lock, I’d likely splinter the wood; if I jimmied the lock, I’d probably nick it. Either option would tip Spada off that someone had been here. He’d assume that someone was me, thereby adding “criminal damage to property” to my long list of offenses.
I settled on the picklocks and went to work—jockeying the tumblers, feeling for the give, moving slow—careful where I placed the picks. When the lock snicked free, I slid open the top drawer, expecting paper but found instead a 9mm Glock. It was black, matte finish, unholstered, sitting next to Post-it notes, paper clips, and a tin of Altoids. What was an insurance guy doing with a gun in his desk? Who’d he plan to use it on? I wasn’t about to touch it, even with the gloves. If I left even a partial print on it, a single ridge or swirl, there was no telling what kind of trouble I’d set myself up for. Instead, I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and snapped a picture of the gun, then quietly slid the drawer closed again.
I found what I was after behind a hidden panel in the bottom drawer. The thick accordion file had been pushed far back in the recess, bound tightly by thin brown string. This was Spada’s secret cache. I counted a dozen files. The forms inside were not at all like the others I’d seen. I flipped through them, quickly moving through, noting names, vital stats, anything that would connect to Tim. It didn’t take long to determine that these papers pertained to viatical settlements and that, on closer inspection, every form belonged to someone with a catastrophic illness who didn’t have long to live. Quickly on the heels of that revelation came the sick fact that for cause of death, in each case, accidental death had been the determination. In the last slot of the folder, I found a stack of hundred-dollar bills in a ten-thousand-dollar bundle. Darby’s unc
laimed pay? Spada’s cut? Acid roiled in my stomach as I read my way through.
Omarr Weaver, sixty-five, colon cancer, stage four. Cause of death: accident. Weaver had fallen down a flight of stairs at home and had broken his neck. Agnes Tynan, thirty-nine, breast cancer, stage four. Cause of death: smoke inhalation suffered in a house fire. Accidents. Just like Tim. All long after they were supposed to have died from their diseases. I read on, my eyes widening when I finally came across the names I’d expected to find: Tim’s and Langham’s. In addition, it appeared that Langham, with no family, had left his worldly possessions—his house, his things—to Spada. That’s why Darby was in Langham’s house. The house belonged to his boss, though obviously he hadn’t yet gotten around to switching things completely over. I tossed the folder on the desk, no longer wanting to touch it. I stood, stepping away from the desk, the folder. It was sickening, all of it.
Why keep these files, even if they were well hidden? Arrogance, I decided, documentation of his cleverness. Or maybe they were Spada’s leverage against Darby double-crossing him? I reluctantly went back to them.
Margaret Gardner, thirty-two, Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She’d been given only a few weeks to live, but held on for more than a year and a half. She died of a barbiturate overdose on her thirty-second birthday. There were at least a handful more. Then the word “homicide” leapt out at me, and I focused on it. Bertrand Tillis, forty-two, prostate cancer. He’d lived eight months past his projected death date. Cause of death: homicide. Tillis had been mugged and beaten to death steps from his back door . . . on Christmas Eve. His killer had never been found.
I upended the file, shook it to make sure I hadn’t missed anything inside; I had. Next to the money, wedged on the bottom, folded, was one more form, this one with a red dot at the top of it. It was the same as the others, except for the dot, and except for the fact that there was no death date filled in. Stella Symonds. End-stage Lou Gehrig’s disease. She’d been given three months, conservatively. That was six months ago. Was she still alive? With Darby dead, maybe Spada didn’t have anyone to arrange for her “accident”?