Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) (6 page)

Mia donned reading glasses and scanned a printout. “Does the name Heather Exley ring any bells?”

Bolin and Deming wore the blank, expressionless masks they award in Law School 101. While I sat frozen, trying not to squirm, Anika plunged in to save me.

“I know Mrs. Exley, Lieutenant. Not well. Through charity things and the like. She was one of the students, although I can’t speak to problems she might have had with anyone.” Anika radiated charm and sweetness buttressed by a spine of steel.

“She seemed interested in this Justin Ming?” Mia asked.

“Most women were,” Anika said. “He has quite a following.”

Mia nodded and consulted her notebook. “Last evening you mentioned some romantic encounter, Ms. Kane. The victim and another man who was
not
Justin Ming.” She took a delicate sip of Perrier and smiled. “We were interrupted before you finished. I want you to describe this man now.”

I gave her the basics: white, forty-ish, brown hair, and a beige trenchcoat. It looked like a Burberry, but I didn’t mention that. Horton Exley wore a Burberry.

“How about his face?” Mia asked. “Did you see it or hear anything?”

This time, truth was my friend. I never actually saw Horty’s face, and his tongue was so far down Phaedra’s throat that he couldn’t say a word.

“How about his build? Surely you saw his back.”

“Nothing memorable,” I said. “Kind of lumpy. Not fat, exactly. Certainly no hottie.”

Deming narrowed his eyes at that but kept silent. Believe it or not, he gets jealous if I look at another man, as if any other being could measure up to him.

Mia tapped that toe again. She suspected I was lying, or at the very least hiding something. I pictured her boot giving my behind a hard, swift kick. Once again, she asked both Anika and me to retrace our steps from the time we left class to our return.

“How did Ms. Jones die, Lieutenant? I didn’t see any blood on her face.” Anika casually lobbed the question, as if she were asking the temperature.

Euphemia Bates moistened her lips and hesitated. “The medical examiner gave us a preliminary finding. Pending toxicology tests, of course. It appears that Phaedra Jones died from a broken neck.”

My mouth opened, and I blurted out a comment before I could stop myself. “Like a martial arts blow. You know, a death chop. Bruce Lee did it all the time. So did Ranger Walker.”

Bolin leaned forward, calm but engaged. “Not really a chop, Eja. A simple side kick to the back of the throat would accomplish that. Of course, there are other more elaborate moves as well.”

Mia’s fleeting smile was forced. “We’re checking out all possibilities.”

“What about that sticky stuff on Eja’s jacket? Wasn’t that blood?” Although Anika radiated innocence, Euphemia Bates didn’t rise to the bait.

“The lab is testing that, Mrs. Swann. Lots of DNA there. Fortunately, the suede jacket was logged in as evidence.” Mia’s tone told me she wasn’t worried at all. She turned toward Deming as she prepared to leave. “We found out one thing about her. It seems that Ms. Jones had a curious profession.”

“Really.” I expected the words madam, hooker, or escort to pop up, but I was wrong.

“She was what they call a
fixer,
someone who brings interested parties together to consummate deals. Ever heard of her, Mr. Swann?”

Bolin shook his head. “What about you, son?”

“I hear lots of names, Lieutenant. Hers does sound familiar. When I get back to the office I’ll check my files.”

“You do that.” She handed him her card. “Call or text me when you do. By the way, I understand Mr. Exley has a new attorney. Ms. Schwartz, I believe.”

The name Pamela Schwartz made me recoil. She was a former lover of Deming’s, the kind of woman who aroused every ounce of insecurity within me. Poison Pam, pernicious Pam, predatory Pam—I had a dozen descriptors for her, none of them good. I studied the small Boucher painting above me while counting way past ten. As with all the items in the house, it was rare, beautiful, and genuine, very much like Anika Swann herself.

Deming said, “As you know, I don’t practice criminal law. Ms. Schwartz will handle any legal issues. I am Mr. Exley’s personal attorney, though. Consider us a team.”

Mia Bates got the last word in. “I will, Mr. Swann. You can count on that.”

“COME ALONG, EJA,” Deming said, after we’d fortified ourselves with more espresso. “I’ll drive you home.” It was more order than offer, and that annoyed me.

“You go on,” I said. “I’ve got errands to run.”

Deming folded his arms and shot his Lord High Executioner glare my way. I’ve never been a Gilbert and Sullivan fan, so I ignored him. It’s a useful skill when he has tantrums. Even as a child, he expected every sentient female to do his bidding. Smart lawyer that he is, he tried another tact.

“Eja, please. We have to talk. Besides, what about Cato?”

Lawyers are a cagey crowd. They find your weak spots and turn the screws.

“Very well,” I said tartly. “Let’s go.” I winked at Anika and gave Bolin a hug. Soon Cato and I were wedged into Deming’s beloved Porsche Panamera, dodging homicidal Bay State drivers.

“Tell me everything,” Deming said. He stroked the leather steering wheel as if it were a lover.

I can be obstinate when it suits me. “Nope. Not unless we trade. Call me your consultant or whatever else you need to do, but I want the whole magilla.”

“For Pete’s sake! You sound like a lowbrow Damon Runyon. Is that what they teach at Brown University these days?”

“Absolutely.” I moved alongside him and pinched his cheek. “Come on, big boy. Spill.”

He growled something unprintable, but by the time we reached my condo he’d settled down. Deming loosened his tie and flopped lengthwise on the sofa, activating all sorts of libidinous thoughts in my mind. I forced myself to stay strong and focus on the mission. If we headed for the bedroom, coherent thought was out the window.

“What’s going on with Horton Exley?” I asked. “It must involve fraud of some kind, and sex of course. That goes without saying.”

Deming threw his hands up in the air and sighed. “Tell me how much you already know. Then I can calculate the risk. As it happens, Horton authorized me in writing to share information with you. For some reason, he thinks you’re a crack investigator.”

I try to be a good sport whenever possible, so I played along. “Really? He must have read my books. Anyhow, that was definitely your client pinning Phaedra Jones, a.k.a. the victim, to the wall of Newbury Comics. His energy shattered all my prejudices about frigid WASPs. Horty was really into it, and he obviously didn’t care who saw him. Phaedra seemed to be enjoying herself too.”

Deming sat upright, more lawyer than lover. “That was the night before her murder. Correct?”

I nodded. “Double feature for the Exley clan that night. Heather had a catfight with the same Phaedra Jones in the locker room. Threats were made.”

“You actually witnessed this?”

“Yes, Counselor. Not all of it, though. I caught round two. Phaedra was livid, stabbing those talons at poor Heather. Could have blinded her.”

“What did they say?”

“Lots of trash talk. You know the drill—bitch this and that. Oh, and something about bullion. That didn’t make much sense.”

Deming exhaled but continued the interrogation. “Was Horton mentioned at all?”

I closed my eyes and concentrated. “Nope. The only name I heard was Justin’s. Totally understandable, of course. There’s no comparison between Horton Exley and Justin Ming, unless you factor in the bank balance.”

My fiancé said a very naughty word while raking his fingers through his thick black hair. “Between you and my mom, all I hear is Justin Ming. Are you suggesting that Heather Exley and Phaedra both were interested in him? Carnally?”

Suddenly, I realized that I was giving all the information and getting nothing in return. “There’s more, but not until you fill me in. Trust. Remember? I’m part of your team.”

Deming narrowed his eyes in the classic intimidation pose one sees on Court TV.

“Okay. Horton is a decent guy, but he’s no shining star, and he’s been insulated from reality all his life.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Doesn’t he have a JD from Yale?”

Deming rolled his eyes. “Meaningless. Horty was a legacy. You know how that works. Exleys are old Yale alums—Skull and Bones, the works. Horty and his cousin were both Bonesmen, and the Forbes side of the family financed half the rooms in the law school. Those kind of people don’t flunk out, Eja.”

For once I kept my opinions to myself. I was an anomaly, a scholarship student who won every academic prize through intellect and hard work. Pampered slugs got no sympathy from me.

Deming’s eyes sparkled as he held out his arms to me. “I know what you’re thinking, smart girl, but not everyone has your IQ. For years, Horty managed to do a decent job of managing the family finances. It wasn’t that easy, either. Ames is always at his throat, and Heather spends money at the speed of sound.”

I cuddled happily in his arms as the narrative continued. “Tell me more.”

“Most of Horton’s finances are tied up and out of his control. Dad saw to that.”

“Bolin?” I asked.

“Of course. He and Horty’s father were close friends. Business partners for a while.” Deming clenched his jaw. “The Exley Foundation was the one exception. Horton chairs and controls that independently. It’s one of Boston’s biggest philanthropic organizations.”

Lightning struck with a thud, and I made the connection. The IRS took a major interest in high-end foundations and the boards that supervised them, especially when someone played fast and loose with the cash. If Horty was involved in a scam, that might interest the FTC as well. That ensured a slow, steady decline, a messy death, and lots of taxable income for the one in charge. Now I understood Deming’s sudden yen for Fleur Pixley.

“You’re trying to butter up Fleur Pixley, you swine! Very devious.”

His look of injured innocence didn’t fool me for a minute.

“I get it—he absconded with the foundation’s cash.” I envisioned Horton Exley on the lam, adopting the grunge look, while the newly impoverished Heather rang up customers at the CVS.

“Are you listening to me, Eja? He did no such thing. Horty is dense, not dishonest.” Deming stammered a bit. “He’s my client, and he needs my help.”

“Where does the FTC come in?” Two can play the intimidation card. I channeled some of the tough female prosecutors from legal thrillers.

“This is strictly confidential. Horton made some poor investments. He had the best intentions, thought he could triple the foundation’s principal, hedge inflation.” His voice trailed off, igniting my suspicions. “Naturally, he made a mess of it.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this. Horton Exley, who probably never balanced his own checkbook or had a budget in his entire life, tried to play big stakes finance. What was it? A Ponzi scheme . . . or some can’t-fail stock tip?”

“Nothing like that.” Deming jumped up so suddenly I almost hit the floor. “It actually wasn’t a bad plan, but Horty was overly enthusiastic. Vulnerable.”

Good mystery writers have suspicious minds. When I hear
vulnerable
coupled with a forty-something male, only one phrase springs to mind: cherchez la femme. From what I witnessed two nights ago, the femme in question could be only one person: Phaedra Jones, the fixer who helped consumate deals and so much more.

“So Phaedra screwed him literally and figuratively,” I said.

Deming wrinkled his perfect nose. “Rather a crass description, Eja.”

“How would you describe it?”

“She interested Horty in a business opportunity and connected him with someone she knew. Unfortunately, it was a scam.”

My curiosity was at flood stage. I might wheedle or cajole, but I refused on principle to beg. “Okay. What was the con?”

“It wasn’t some pie in the sky thing. Horty’s not a total idiot, you know. Gold. Precious metals. You’ve heard all those ads on television. Celebrities hawking gold, average Americans panicking. And the price kept rising.”

I bit my lip both as a distraction and a way to calm myself. No wonder Mrs. Horty freaked about bullion. “What was the problem?”

Deming sighed. “Just think. There are different ways you can invest. Gold stocks, coins, or bars. Some daredevils even take a flier on gold mines. The field is wide open right now and it’s damn complicated. I’ve studied it, and even then, I’d never invest without one of our financial guys advising me. Dad is even more rigid.”

I’d seen the ads, of course, and my suspicious mind kept gnawing at one big question: how would the average Joe or Josephine know that the glittering stuff was really gold? Prospectors have been deluded about that since the Gold Rush days.

Deming continued his narrative as if he were instructing a particularly dull pupil. “You mentioned bullion—that’s just a term for bulk metal, usually coins or bars. Nobody advises you to buy coins unless they’re issued by the US mint. Otherwise you pay an outrageous premium.”

His emotion was laughable. Swanns have absolutely no sense of humor concerning money matters. That probably explained how they made and kept their enormous fortune.

“What did Horton choose?” I asked.

“Initially, he went for gold stocks and futures, you know, mines and the like. Risky, but relatively safe. But then, as with so many other romantics, he became a gold-bug.”