Swann Dive

by Arlene Kay

  Bolin’s eyes gleamed with a ferocity I’d never seen before. “Just one, Jake?”

  Jake avoided his eyes. “More than one. They said their clothes were rearranged, that there were other signs of . . . interference.” This time Dr. Jake looked really uncomfortable.

  “Were the authorities involved?” Bolin’s voice was low and lethal.

  “I understand that they did a rape kit on one of the women. No evidence whatsoever of sexual contact.”

  “Not surprising,” Bolin said. “He’d use a condom.”

  My confusion mounted as they debated the forensic aspects of sexual congress.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “CeCe refused hypnosis. It’s one of the reasons they had a blowup.”

  “I didn’t,” Anika said. “Wesley hypnotized me every time.”

  A small bomb imploded in the room. At least it seemed that way. Deming shot out of his seat, upending his plate and savaging his crystal goblet.

  “That bastard! That dirty rotten bastard!” He averted his eyes from his father’s anguished face. “If he touched her, I’ll . . .”

  “Hold on, son,” Bolin said. “Take it easy. We need proof before we charge in.”

  “No matter what, it still doesn’t link him to my daughter’s death, and that’s all I care about.” Anika was strangely calm as she sat upright, sipping her wine. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something.

  “I wish there were some way to find out,” she said. “All I remember is feeling uncomfortable. No other physical symptoms.”

  I’d been mulling over the same issue, and a plan was germinating in my head. It wasn’t foolproof, and it might not mean anything. But it might explain those checks CeCe wrote and even the gun in her safe.

  “I have an idea,” I said. “We’d need independent corroboration. Someone with insight into Townsend’s operation. Maybe we can trap him and contact Lieutenant Bates.”

  Deming’s frown rivaled the wrath of Zeus. “Absolutely not. I forbid you to endanger your life running around like some addlepated gumshoe.”

  “Let her speak, Dem.” Bolin turned to me. “Go on, Eja. What’s your plan?”

  I explained the contact with Brenda the receptionist and my feeling that she might want to help. “She knows something. I’m positive about that, and she was very fond of CeCe.”

  “There’s more, isn’t there?” Jake asked. “Might as well tell us.”

  I took a deep, cleansing breath. My plan was risky, and Deming’s reaction would be volcanic. But it just might work.

  “Okay. Here it is: I’ll become Dr. Townsend’s patient. Any story will do. Grief or guilt over CeCe, general anxiety—you know the drill. Anything to make him hypnotize me.”

  “We could say you’re nervous about your wedding,” Anika said. “You know, premarital doubts based on poor self-image.”

  Deming’s face darkened. “Wedding? What the hell . . .”

  “That was my idea, darling. I told Wesley that Eja was my future daughter-in-law.” Anika beamed. “It explained her connection quite nicely, and he totally bought it.”

  Bolin furrowed his brow. “Hmm. We’d need some help from Jake. A referral. Townsend doesn’t take just anyone.”

  “Dad! You’re not buying this nonsense, are you? Eja thinks she’s some kind of sleuth. She spends so much time reading and writing that crap that she’s delusional.”

  Bolin grinned. “Maybe fiction is stranger than truth for once. How about it, Jake?”

  Jake nodded. “But how will you trap him? Remember Eja, hypnosis is a very effective tool. Most people can’t resist it.”

  “I know. But I can have some type of recording device in my purse. Then when he tries something, we’ll have proof.”

  Jake grimaced. “I don’t know. That sounds like entrapment. And what if it doesn’t work? You could be very vulnerable.” He shook his head. “He’s not Raven.”

  “Heaven no. His assistant said Townsend has absolutely no interest in poetry. Plus, there’s another complication. He already has a wife.” I stole a glance at Deming, who looked almost comatose.

  “So, how about it? If CeCe found out what he was up to, Wesley Townsend had a big fat motive to kill her. Plus, as her shrink he could lure her to that rooftop. You know, say he finally found a cure. She was desperate to conquer her fears. It might have worked.” I choked back a sob. If only my friend had waited for me. We could have figured something out.

  “It’s highly unethical, a risky proposition. Very risky.” Bolin’s lips turned up in a faint smile. “I like it.”

  “Dad!” Deming stalked out of the room without saying goodbye. Bad behavior was getting to be a habit with him. I preferred the aloof, predictable Deming Swann of old to this volatile stranger. Once again, CeCe had been right: I had no clue about Brother Bjorn.

  “Don’t worry, Eja.” Anika showed the serenity of the Mona Lisa. “Dem always reacts when people he cares for are threatened. It’s one of his most endearing traits.”

  My cheeks burned, and I feigned interest in my napkin. He’d probably think I manipulated his mother, pushed my way into the family circle. No doubt he’d fled to the welcoming arms of Pamela Schwartz or one of her surrogates.

  “I’ll have my security people work it out,” Bolin said. “They’ll know the equipment that we need. I’m expecting a call back from Lieutenant Bates anyway. Won’t hurt to check in with the authorities in case they have any leads. Meanwhile, we’ll need your help, Jake.”

  The two men huddled together, devising a plan that would pass muster with Dr. Wesley Townsend. Anika’s eyes brightened as she discussed a strategy of her own.

  “Tomorrow, Eja. We’ll visit my stylist. You’ll just love Harpo, don’t worry.”

  “Stylist? Mrs. Swann . . .”

  She waved off my protests. “Now, now. You’ve got to look and act the part of Dem’s fiancée if we want this to work. Don’t worry. My treat. Wesley is very sensitive to nuance. If he senses a trap, he’ll back off in a minute.”

  I loathed the idea of a major makeover just to claw my way up to Deming’s standards. Wild curls and an unadorned face were part of my charm. Why not accept me for who I was?

  Anika entwined her hands like the Gordian knot. “Indulge me on this, Eja. Please. It’s one last thing we can do for Cecilia, you and I. Her burial will be low-key—family only—to be followed by a celebration of my daughter’s life later on.” Her eyes filled as she said the words. “I won’t have any public gathering until Cecilia has been vindicated. You understand, don’t you, Eja?”

  I’m not the clingy type. Never have been. But before I knew it, Anika and I were holding each other, sobbing for the daughter and friend we’d lost. Tears are cleansing forces that can sweep away pain and clear the mind. By the time I left, we’d charted a path that might mean justice for my friend.

  SLEEP ELUDED ME that night. I was assailed by makeover nightmares that rivaled any horror film. Upscale hair salons give me a rash. Always have. I feel awkward and inadequate entering a beauty temple where even shampoo girls can show me up.

  The next morning I agonized over my wardrobe, makeup, and hair. I finally settled on a black ensemble, last year’s Christmas gift from CeCe. With any luck, I’d fade into the woodwork, eclipsed by Anika’s radiant beauty.

  Promptly at nine a.m., Po swung the Mercedes into my driveway and hopped out. Anika, resplendent in crimson, beckoned me into the back seat.

  “This is exciting, Eja! I feel so . . . what is that word . . . empowered! Bolin liked the idea. About the salon, I mean. You know how men are. Girly stuff comforts them.”

  I had to ask, even though I shouldn’t have.

  “What about Deming?”

  She shrugged. “No clue. He never came back last night. Probably hunkered down at his pl
ace, playing music. My boy loves Mozart. Beethoven too.”

  Probably hunkered down all right—with Pamela Schwartz.

  “You look lovely, by the way. Armani suits you.” Anika chattered on, briefing me on the day’s beauty agenda: highlights, cut and blow-dry, followed by a mani/pedi and professional makeup application.

  “Gee, I don’t know about that, Anika. I’ve never had much luck with makeup. CeCe tried to show me, but I flunked the course.”

  She patted my cheek. “Nonsense. You’ll be a natural. Afterwards, I suggest we pop into Cecilia’s office. You know, chat up the staff. The timing should be just right.”

  That part of the plan appealed to me. If I encountered Poison Pam, at least I’d look my best. The thought buoyed my spirits all the way to the salon.

  To my relief, the surroundings echoed the name. Piao-Liang, the Mandarin word for beauty, was serene and understated, awash in soothing earth tones with occasional accents of cherry. No sneers or looks of thinly veiled contempt from the staff. Harpo Chan was a Chinese man of about my age with a kind manner and discerning eye. He sized me up immediately, asked a few questions, and made suggestions. It was obvious that Anika doted on him and that the affection was mutual. In order to placate her and survive the ordeal, I gave him carte blanche to work his magic. I’m open-minded. Maybe I’d enjoy playing queen for the day after years of a no-frills, low-maintenance lifestyle.

  I averted my eyes as Harpo snipped, foiled, and puffed my hair into submission.

  “My friend praised you to the sky,” I said. “No one else could touch her hair. She wouldn’t even consider it.”

  He bowed. “A number of my clients are lawyers, but Ms. Swann was unique. One of my favorites. She worked so hard. Too hard. I was pleased to see her finally relax.”

  My antennae rose like antlers. Many women confide personal things to their stylist. Did Harpo know something important?

  “I’d never even seen her engagement ring until . . . afterwards.”

  He gave me a measured look. “It was beautiful. Five karats. Flawless.”

  “Only the best would do. CeCe loved jewelry,” I said. “I suppose you met Raven?”

  Harpo shook his head. “She mentioned him. Told me about him. I never saw him, though.” He held the mirror up for me to admire his handiwork. “He made her happy, this Raven. I know that.”

  I swiveled the chair around to face Harpo. “Did she describe him, or tell you anything that might help us identify him? Please. It’s important.”

  He hesitated as if he were debating the issue with my murdered friend. “She worried how her brother would react. Not her parents, just him. Brother Bjorn, she always called him. She said he was very protective.”

  “You got that right!” I smiled as I recalled those flashing eyes and taut muscles.

  “One thing more.” Harpo lowered his voice. “Raven was someone she’d known for a while. She said it would surprise everyone.”

  My stomach clenched. Oh, Lord! Two names popped into my head: Jem Russell and Wesley Townsend. That explained those recent photos in her condo. Jem was a Neanderthal who lacked the Irish gift for wit. Wesley Townsend had a sinister side, but at least he could claim a distinguished academic pedigree.

  The whole beauty experience was exhausting, a waste of time that I could have spent writing. Then I saw the results.

  No more stolid, wholesome Eja. The new me was sleek, sophisticated, and almost sultry. I was beginning to get the hang of the spa experience, and it was awesome!

  Anika’s cries of approval were echoed by Harpo’s brisk affirmative nod. I’d passed the test and for once in my homespun life I felt glamorous.

  “Wait ’til Dem sees you,” Anika said. “He’ll just explode.”

  I hoped that was hyperbole, but knowing CeCe’s twin, it was probably accurate.

  Fourteen

  WE PILED INTO the Mercedes for the brief ride to Sevier, Miles and Swann. Anika kept her comments to a minimum in recognition of the probing gaze and big ears of Po. I’d gained insight into her modus vivendi over the past week. After thirty-six years of marriage, Anika Swann kept her smoking hot hubby by a wily combination of femininity and cold calculation. There was much to learn from this woman.

  Anika adjusted her scarf and did a quick time check. “Okay. Our first target is Meribeth Foye, Cecilia’s paralegal. You chat with her while I handle Emerson. He’s the managing partner. Naturally, we’ll spend some time with Malcolm. You’ve probably met him a hundred times, Eja.”

  I nodded. “Her secretary. Yes, I got to know him fairly well. Great guy.” I lowered my voice. “Remember. We need information on two fronts: personal and professional. Anything, even if it’s a rumor. They’ve already spoken to the cops, but I’ll bet everyone was very discreet.”

  “You know lawyers, don’t you? Bolin said they’re paranoid about anything that might sully the firm’s reputation.”

  “I guess murder falls into that category,” I said. “Pamela Schwartz is another matter. Let’s hope we can avoid her until the end. You may have to get dramatic, Anika. Draw her attention away from me.”

  Her smile was fraught with sorrow. “That won’t be difficult. I’ll faint if I have to.”

  We slapped hands. “That’s the spirit.”

  A PILE OF VENERABLE grey brick housed Sevier, Miles and Swann. The firm was large, over eighty attorneys, an offshoot of the original enterprise founded by CeCe’s grandfather and his late partners. From the portraits adorning the lobby, I learned that Grandpa Swann had the same good looks and sinewy form as Bolin and Deming. His partners looked like many lawyers, earnest, amiable, and unremarkable.

  We were escorted to the elevator by a deferential security guard who stopped just short of kissing Anika’s ring. His heartfelt tributes to CeCe seemed genuine, however. As we ascended to the thirty-third floor, Anika freshened her lipstick and winked at me.

  “We’re on, Eja. You look fantastic!”

  He was waiting for us. Malcolm Cates, CeCe’s assistant and trusted right hand, drew us close and hugged us. With his neatly trimmed hair, navy suit, red tie, and white shirt, he could easily have passed for an attorney. Malcolm never cared for that. His most endearing trait was dignity and a sense of pride that transcended status. CeCe adored and trusted him. If she’d hidden any secrets, I’d bet Malcolm knew them.

  Anika described my cover story and left for the corner office in the lupine grasp of the grand pooh-bah, Emerson Michaels. Malcolm waved me into CeCe’s office and poured espresso from her machine. “I’m at your disposal,” he said. “Orders from on high.”

  “Great! I have lots of questions.” I resurrected my peppy cheerleader act from high school. Since I’d never made the squad, it was total fantasy and a bit rusty.

  “Tell me about these cases she lost. You know, product liability ones.”

  Malcolm blanched. “That’s confidential. Propriety information. I don’t think . . .”

  “Orders from on high?” I glared at him, hands on hips. “Bolin Swann must have been mistaken.”

  That name worked on Malcolm like a lightning strike. He gulped a slug of espresso and nodded. “Okay, I’ll have Meribeth brief you on that. What else?”

  His discomfort made me wonder how big a deal those lost cases really were. I’d chalked CeCe’s outrage up to her fierce competitive spirit. Swanns never lost, and they never accepted second place in anything. What if there was more to it? CeCe would stamp out impropriety like a demented flamenco dancer.

  “Let’s make one thing clear,” I said. “CeCe didn’t kill herself. If I’m wrong, tell me. Otherwise, let’s cut to the chase.”

  Malcolm grinned. “So. You’re not writing a memoir.”

  “Not so fast,” I said. “I am a writer, as you know, and I will tell CeCe’s story. But it may end up being more
true crime than memoir. That depends on getting facts from the people who knew her best.”

  He thought about it for a moment, then closed the door and loosened his tie. “Very well. How can I help?”

  WE SPENT THE next hour trading memories of CeCe, recalling her generous heart, crazy laugh, and fierce ambition. Malcolm had been the prototype “office husband” who did whatever it took to lighten his boss’s load. He understood her, appreciated her many strengths, and compensated for her weaknesses.

  “Did you know about Raven?” I asked. “Even I didn’t know she’d gotten engaged.”

  Malcolm smiled. “Ms. Swann kept her personal life to herself. Mostly. But over the past few months, she was just so . . . jubilant, I guess you’d say. She asked me how I felt about married life. You know, all the trade-offs and rewards.” He sighed.

  “Did he call here? Maybe leave a number?”

  His clenched jaw told me this was a touchy subject. I understood but didn’t back down. “Please, Malcolm. It’s important.”

  He tapped his iPad and accessed a file. “He called from this number several times. Kind of weird, because I think it’s an answering service or something.” Malcolm shrugged. “I must be wrong. No one uses those these days.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “Just a feeling. I could hear pages, you know, like in an airport or train station.”

  I looked at the number. Was this innocuous set of digits the key to Raven?

  “How about at work? You guys probably knew her big news. The federal appointment?”

  “You know offices, Ms. Kane. Word of mouth and all. When Senator Lewis showed up, people talked.”

  That jolted me awake. “Wait a minute. Prescott Lewis came into the office to see her? Recently?”

  Malcolm tapped his iPad once more. “Yep. He met with her and Pam Schwartz last month, and he had lunch with Ms. Swann on Thursday.”