by Davis Bunn
Harry crossed the yard in a sunlit daze.
The guard who operated the outer gate was as black as the hole Harry Bennett had come to know all too well. His grin was probably good-natured. But Harry had known guards who laughed when they beat the prisoners. The guard said, “Don’t say the island never gave you nothing, Harry.”
Harry stared at the street beyond the gates. “No, indeed.”
The guard held out a pale-palmed hand for Harry’s release form. He registered the number in his book and asked, “Will I be seeing you again, Harry?”
“Not a chance in this whole wide world.”
“That’s the answer I want to be hearing from you.” The guard waved his hand in the languid island manner. The guardhouse rang the buzzer and opened the gates. “You be good, now.”
Harry stepped outside. He turned right because it was toward the sun. The light was so bright he could not see where he was going. Harry squinted and kept moving down the empty street. And counted his steps.
The Barbados prison was located in the old fortress down on the bad side of Bridgetown. The yard was a postage stamp thirty-three paces wide. When Harry reached step thirty-four, he was shaking so hard he had to lean against the wall. It was the longest straight line he had walked in seventeen months.
“I say, would you happen to be Harry Bennett?”
Harry focused on a skinny black gnome seated in the rear of a powder-puff blue car. “That’s a fifty-six Buick.”
“Fifty-five, actually.” The gnome opened his door. He shooed the hustling driver away and eased himself out in elderly stages. He wore a dark pinstriped suit that could have held two of him, and peered up at Harry. “It is you, is it not?”
“That depends.”
“Well, of course. How could I expect you to respond willingly to questions from a perfect stranger. Particularly given what you’ve just managed to survive.” He offered Harry a gnarled hand. “Wilberforce Lincoln Pawltwell, at your service. I apologize for keeping you waiting, good sir. But I was led to believe you would not be released until tomorrow. I dread to think what would have happened had my contact in the director’s office not bothered to phone.”
Harry gripped the man’s hand like he would ancient crystal. “Should I know you?”
“We share a mutual friend, Mr. Bennett. Or rather, we did. But first let’s make ourselves comfortable.” He waved toward his car. “Please allow me to offer you a ride.”
“First tell me why.”
The gnome lowered his voice and said, “Sean Syrrell’s dying request was that I come to your aid.”
The sun dimmed somewhat. “Old Sean’s gone?”
“He is indeed. But not before he phoned on your behalf. And now, dear sir. Do join me.”
Harry waited until he was in the car to ask, “When did Sean die?”
“Three days ago.” Pawltwell leaned forward. “The airport, Jimmy. This gentleman’s plane leaves in less than three hours.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you must, Mr. Bennett. Sean distinctly—”
“The Barbados government owes me one quarter of two point six million dollars. I heard from the guards that’s the take from my wreck.”
“That would be a most injudicious attitude to take, sir. The courts have declared that you have no claim whatsoever.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Called to the bar sixty years ago next week.”
“I hate lawyers.”
“Yes, well. Given your choice of defense attorneys, I can understand the sentiment.” Pawltwell’s hands had the frail quality of a child’s, wrapped in skin like burnt parchment. He gathered them on the head of his cane. “Harry…may I call you Harry? I speak with six decades’ experience when I say your case is unwinnable.”
“I never entered Barbados waters—”
“I took it upon myself to make enquiries. I immediately received a visit from a most unpleasant individual. A simply horrid soul, sir. Representing an arm of my government I did not even know existed.”
The Buick smelled of sweat and age and mothballs. “I think his cousins work as guards inside.
“No doubt every nation on earth has its share of such dark souls. This particular ogre informed me that were I to pursue my enquiries, I would join you inside a place without windows. I believe you know the place of which I speak.”
Harry shut his eyes.
“My dear Harry, we are all a hairsbreadth from eternity. Your recent experiences have no doubt driven that fact home in brutal detail. Were you to take this exceptionally unwise course, my visitor assured me you would join the living dead.” Pawltwell shuddered delicately. “To hear him describe your fate left me quaking in my brogans.”
Harry did not say anything more until they pulled into the airport’s forecourt. Barbados palms rustled and waved a salt-scented farewell in the afternoon sea breeze. “Where am I headed?”
“London.” Pawltwell handed over a shiny new briefcase, so packed the sides bulged. “In the side pocket you will find a passport, a ticket, a receipt for two nights’ prepaid stay at the Heathrow Sheraton, a file, and traveling funds. The file contains Sean’s dying request. Two, actually.”
“Which are?”
“First, go and see a certain gentleman in London. His name and rather elaborate contact details are in the file. It’s all a bit cloak-and-dagger for my taste, but Sean obviously thought it important.”
“After that?”
“Protect Storm Syrrell, his granddaughter. A remarkable woman, by all accounts.” The old man pointed Harry toward the airport and the waiting plane. “Balance your loss against your remarkable good fortune, that’s my advice. And don’t give another thought to what you will never recover.”
Harry felt a prisoner’s helpless rage. “Easy for you to say. You’re just a hired gun.”
Pawltwell tapped the head of his cane. Once, twice, three times. A silent admonition. He did not glance over as Harry climbed out. “Sean also instructed me to tell you the rewards could be great, but the risks are even greater. But you are well versed in living with danger, are you not?” The old man signaled to the driver and dismissed Harry, all in one wave. “Come, Jimmy. Let us leave this gentleman to choose his fate.”
THREE
WHEN THE CORONER FINALLY RELEASED Sean’s body, Storm and her aunt Claudia drove from New York back to Alexandria. The rental car tires hissed through a late-season slush, while overhead loomed a sky that reflected Storm’s own future. Every sweep of the wipers revealed the hearse, throwing grit and tears back upon them like the shadow bringer himself.
After helping Claudia see to the funeral arrangements, Storm drove to Dulles and caught the last flight to Palm Beach. When she arrived home, she dumped her luggage and stayed in the shower until all the hot water was gone. Her bones ached, more from failure than fatigue. She dressed in a Dolphins T-shirt, crawled into bed, hugged her pillow, and wondered why the tears still refused to come.
After her first night’s sleep in three days, Storm woke to sunlight streaming through her window, unhindered by drapes she had not bothered to close. She made coffee and half listened to her messages as she dressed. A few friends in the trade phoned to express their condolences. Others called seeking either bargains or news. The only odd note came from her pastor, Richard Ellis, who had phoned six times. Storm carried her recharged mug through the apartment, the litany of voices following her every step. Richard had been Sean’s friend, not hers. Friendship with a pastor suggested a comfort level with faith that Storm did not possess. But when Sean had been in town, he and the pastor had often talked long into the night. Storm assumed Richard was phoning about funeral details and mentally added his name to the list of things that would never get done.
When the call from Claudia finally came, Storm was as ready as she would ever be. “I’m here.”
“How was your night?”
“I actually slept.”
“Glad one of us did.”
Claudia Syrrell was normally as polished and gentle as Storm’s grandfather had been brutal. Today, her voice carried the discord of a cracked bell. “I’ve just finished with the lawyers.”
Storm seated herself at the desk that had once belonged to Sean. “Tell me.”
“The reading of Sean’s will was all empty gestures and worried looks. As in, there is no chance the company will survive. The meeting with the accountant was nightmarish. I knew Sean had eaten into his assets, keeping us afloat. But…” Claudia drew a ragged breath. “It’s gone. All of it. There’s nothing left.”
“Did he even mention me in the will?”
“No, honey. He didn’t.”
Claudia’s regretful pause gave Storm time for flight through painful memories. Sean Syrrell had disowned Storm’s father before Storm had been born. She had not even met her grandfather until two weeks after her twenty-first birthday. Sean had neither offered a glimmer of apology for the lost years, nor even suggested they mattered to him. Even so, working at Syrrell’s had been all Storm ever wanted, even long before she’d met her grandfather.
At thirteen she had befriended her aunt Claudia and started visiting their Palm Beach office. She had chosen her university and her major on Claudia’s advice: accounting with a minor in art history. With that background, Storm had realized months ago that Syrrell’s was in dire straights.
Claudia changed the subject. “When are the packers coming to set you up at the convention center?”
The Palm Beach Art and Treasures Fair was one of the largest in the country, with over a quarter of a million visitors. Booths were offered by invitation only. As much as a billion dollars in merchandise would trade hands.
Storm struggled to maintain a steady tone. “Three days.”
“Have them clear out the office and the apartment while they’re there. Get it done and over with.”
Storm winced at the thought of all those snide faces watching her public flameout. “I can’t handle the exhibition.”
“Consider it your last duty for Syrrell’s. Don’t tell anyone the shop is closing. Not yet.”
“Everybody will know, Claudia.”
“Just don’t make it official.”
Storm knew her aunt was trying for professional. But it came across as cruel. “Can’t we—”
“Use the exhibition to unload everything you possibly can. Cash only.” Claudia’s voice broke for the first time. “Try to find yourself another job.”
THE COURTYARD CONTAINING THEIR PALM BEACH shop had been built in the thirties by a Creole merchant and possessed a fanciful touch of old Orleans. The pastel buildings were rimmed by a single gallery, segmented by wrought-iron screens that matched the balcony railings and two circular staircases. Originally the square had contained a tailor, a shoemaker, and a Catalan butcher whose home-smoked chorizo sausage had spiced all of Worth Avenue. In those early days, the merchants had lived above their shops. Sean had torn out the interior walls and formed an L-shaped living-dining area with high ceilings, Florida mahogany floors, and an office area rimmed by four teak pillars. Sean had fashioned it for himself as a second home, away from the frantic pace of Alexandria and their home office. He had seemed genuinely pleased when Storm had asked to rent it from him. The apartment was the first place Storm had ever cared for enough to call home.
Storm went downstairs, switched off the alarm system, and took a slow stroll around the shop’s two rooms. Every item was mentally emblazoned with stories that meant more than her own life’s recollections. This passion fueled her ability to sell both the artwork and the fable of ownership. Storm Syrrell was very good at her job. And look where it had brought her.
Storm had no idea how long she’d stood there before the front door chimed and a woman’s voice asked, “Ms. Syrrell?”
“The shop is closed.” Storm’s throat was clenched so tight the last word could not emerge. She coughed and said, “Sorry. Dust. We’re not open today.”
“Are you Storm Syrrell?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Emma Webb. I’m an attorney with Baxter and Bow. I’m here at the behest of your grandfather. Could you please take a walk with me?”
“Today is not a good day, Ms….”
“Emma Webb. I understand. But this can’t wait.”
“It has to.”
“Ms. Syrrell, I’ve been by three times a day since your grandfather’s demise. I was specifically ordered not to phone. His instructions were, ‘Only in person.’ And ‘Do this immediately.’”
Digesting this information took Storm through several long breaths. “Sean told you to contact me after he died?”
Emma Webb backed out the door. “Can we go, please? Now?”
The attorney waited in the courtyard as Storm locked the shop and reset the alarm. “I was ordered to make contact the moment notice came of his demise. And not before. Mr. Syrrell did everything but tattoo his instructions on my arm.”
“That sounds like Sean.”
Emma Webb pointed them east along Worth Avenue, toward the ocean. The woman was perhaps a decade older than Storm’s twenty-five years and moved like a tennis pro. Strong tanned legs stretched the fabric of her skirt with each stride. “I’m sorry for your loss. I should have started with that. But to be honest, I’m a little shook being here at all.”
“How long ago did my grandfather contact you?”
“Fifteen days.”
Storm stalled in midstride. “Sean came to you two weeks ago and said, if I die, do this?”
“Can we keep walking, please?”
Storm remained planted on the pavement. “Did that sound the least bit suspicious to you?”
“Of course it did. And to answer your next question, Mr. Syrrell’s exact instructions were, ‘Don’t bother with the cops.’” She tugged on Storm’s arm. Hard. “Ms. Syrrell, your grandfather told me this was extremely urgent.”
The Worth Avenue Bank predated the arrival of serious money. The building anchored a block containing a Hermès emporium, Storm’s largest competitor, and a jeweler whose principal address was the Place Vendôme. The bank specialized in clients who used other people’s fingers to count their loot. Storm said, “We operate through First American.”
“I know.” Emma Webb approached a guard stationed by a central stairway and said, “We have business in the safety-deposit vault.”
Downstairs, Emma Webb set a bank card on a waist-high counter manned by yet another uniformed officer. “This is as far as I go.”
“I don’t understand any of this.”
“That makes two of us. My law firm has never represented Syrrell. Do you have any idea why your grandfather would come to us now?”
“No. But my grandfather was notorious for being secretive.”
The security guard checked the card’s number on his computer, then swiveled a logbook around.
“Show the guard your ID, Ms. Syrrell.” When Storm had done so, Emma Webb reached into her shoulder bag and came up with a manila folder. She said to the officer, “Would you witness this handover, please?”
“No problem.”
The attorney slapped the file onto the marble counter. “These are ownership documents for a safety-deposit box. The fee for this box is paid through the next five years. This card acts as your key. Don’t lose it. And your grandfather instructed me to give you this.”
The folder contained a medical fitness report for Sean Syrrell, dated three weeks earlier. Storm leafed through the pages. “Did you read this?”
“Basically, it states that your grandfather was in perfect health.” The attorney gave Storm a tight look. “Ms. Syrrell, do you have legal representation?”
She had trouble dragging her gaze from the pages. “No.”
“Your grandfather obviously had concerns about a number of things. Including the legal group that normally represents your company’s interests.” Emma Webb flipped the pages over to a form imprinted with her firm’s name. “The items you’ll find in the
vault were deeded to you two weeks ago. Do you understand what this means? They don’t appear in his will because legally, at the time of his death, they did not belong to him. Sign here and here, please.”
Storm had difficulty making her fingers obey.
“Your signature confirms that you have received the items Mr. Syrrell left in our care and that we have performed our duties as per his instructions. My card is stapled to the front of the folder. I would urge you to get in touch if you need anything. Anything at all.”
STORM AND THE GUARD ENTERED the safety deposit vault through a revolving steel-barred drum. The guard led her through an area as large as the bank’s main hall. Every surface was covered in tan carpet and possessed a crypt’s ability to suck away sound.
“If you want privacy, use one of the side alcoves. You fasten the curtain, stay as long as you like.” The guard pointed her to a rear wall lined with vaults the size of narrow broom closets. “Okay, this one is yours. You want to open it?”
“I guess so.”
“Slip your card in this slot.” Her evident confusion melted his gruff attitude a trifle. “Caught you by surprise, all this.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, all I can tell you is, vaults this size cost more than the rent on my apartment.” His key ring zipped back to the metal brace on his belt. “You need anything, just holler.”
Storm waited until the guard departed before opening the door. Which proved to be a good thing. Because the cupboard’s contents proved the day’s undoing.
FOUR
HARRY BENNETT TOOK THE EXPRESS train from Heathrow Airport to Paddington Station. He stopped by a department store for a dark sweater and slate grey trousers: clothes that would blend with the rain-swept day and the workers in their purgatory uniforms. He took the Circle Line tube to the Barbican Station, then walked a street shaped like an asphalt gorge to his destination.
At first glance, the Guildhall resembled a Gothic mockery of a Grecian temple. Harry stepped into an alcove across the street from the Guildhall’s front entrance and scoped the terrain.