Just Evil (10 page)

The court had awarded a record fifteen-million-dollar
judgment that had gone on to bankrupt McKetrick Construction. At the time, the
case had been the first monumental court victory of its kind on the West Coast
against a major environmental polluter.

The court victory had been so impressive that, even today,
law professors used it as a model. That one case had put Boyd Boyd Geller &
Gatz on the proverbial map to overnight success. To celebrate their victory,
every year on Memorial Day Sumner and Jessica held a decadent festival known
locally as The Boyd Bash.

For four days beginning on Friday and ending on Monday, they
opened The Enclave to close friends and business associates, including some of
Hollywood’s biggest celebrities as well as guests from all over the world. Dan
knew the local legend. Each year the parties got a little raunchier. He
wondered as he looked the place over if this year they’d still carry on the
tradition. 

In spite of his seventy years and his snow white hair,
Sumner Morgan Boyd was a good-looking man. Trim and fit at six feet tall, he
made sure he ran three miles every day and hit the links at least three times a
week, which explained the perfect golf tan. Life’s setbacks were new to him. He
simply wasn’t used to failure or disappointment. In fact, he didn’t permit it.

Those who knew him said he was tough. And he was. But it was
important to Sumner that people believe he was a regular guy, a self-made man.
Proud of the fact that he came from humble beginnings and made something of
himself, he didn’t want his sons forgetting that he had grown up in a blue
collar neighborhood in Grand Rapids, Michigan, the oldest of six children.

And he was proud of the fact that he had never taken a cent
from Jessica’s wealthy parents. He knew Jessica’s father, old Jacob Geller, had
disapproved of him the moment he’d set foot inside the man’s front door. Jacob
Geller had made no secret that he thought Sumner Boyd had been after his
daughter’s trust fund.

When Jessica had announced her plans to marry Sumner in
their last year of law school, Jacob Geller had done the only thing that a
wealthy, stubborn father could to get his way: he threatened to cut her out of
the family fortune if she went ahead with the marriage. But instead of breaking
off the relationship Jessica had dug in her heels. She decided she could do
without a few of life’s luxuries. After all, she was deeply in love—if not a bit
naïve in her stubbornness.

Giving up family money couldn’t be that difficult, or so
she’d reasoned. She’d simply make her own. They’d start their own law firm and
money would roll in. At the time her stance went a long way to alleviate any
rumors that the poor-boy law student had married the wealthy debutante for her
money. And in the beginning they’d been blissfully happy.

Unfortunately, the bliss hadn’t lasted very long.

As Sumner stood looking out onto the majestic Malibu cliffs
and the Pacific Ocean beyond, he reflected back to that time when they’d been
looking professional failure in the face. But they’d overcome the odds. That
one case had turned the corner for all of them. If they’d turned a blind eye to
ethics every now and then through the years, it just showed they would do
whatever it took to win. And as long as it was a Boyd, a Gatz, or a Geller
doing the winning, that was fine with him.

He watched his beloved sons Connor, Cade, and Collin take
their place around the huge mahogany conference table.

It was in the back of his mind that someone had discovered
their secret. But he knew that was impossible. No one alive knew what they’d
done, how they’d gotten their start. If someone had it in for his family it
didn’t have anything to do with that. And no matter what they had done, he
would fight back with all he had to protect what was his.

He stood there in the library waiting for Jessica’s sister
Eva Geller Gatz and her sons Jacob and Adam to get settled around the table along
with Frank Geller’s four children. Sumner’s eye twitched in annoyance as he
remembered that Frank was honeymooning somewhere on the Riviera with his fifth
wife.

Never could count on Frank anyway, he thought miserably, as
he looked back on his forty-two year marriage to Jessica the woman he’d married
in Las Vegas the day after they’d both graduated law school. He decided, hands
down, those early years had been the very best. But because he’d lost Jessica,
he could indulge himself today, to look back and wonder what would have
happened if things had gone the other way. He shook his head at that. It had
all worked out for the best. And it had been a helluva ride.

When they’d all settled around the table, Sumner took a deep
breath. “I won’t permit anyone to intimidate this family. We’ll get whoever’s
responsible.”

A slightly drunk Collin stood up. He was a preppy-looking
younger version of his older brothers with dark hair and dark eyes like their
mother, and announced, “You know suicide is bullshit.”

“Yes. That’s why I’ve prepared a cursory list of our
enemies. After forty years of success, we’ve created a few.”

“Is it possible someone found out?” asked Connor. 

Even if he did suspect just that, Sumner didn’t want to rule
out the fact there could be any number of other reasons for his wife’s
murder—as well as Alana’s. The nonsense about Kit being involved in Alana’s
murder was just that. He’d read the papers, knew the girl as well as he did his
own sons.

When he realized they were waiting for an answer, he assured
them, “That isn’t possible. But I’ve put Auslo and Taft on it. They’re good for
grunt work such as this. But let me make this clear, from here on out, no one
makes a move without consulting me, understand?”

His middle son Cade spoke up, “So we leave it up to Auslo and
Taft? I don’t like it.”

A rather loud knock on the door broke the moment.

A butler in a black tux showed St. John and Holloway into
the law library. The smell of expensive leather and polished mahogany
overwhelmed both detectives. Dan took in the tight-knit consortium entrenched
in their world of privilege. They looked as if, for the first time in their
lives, they’d suffered a major defeat. And they weren’t used to losing. Looking
around at their faces, he remembered all the triumphant press conferences he’d
seen over the years with these same people, touting their courtroom wins, and
decided they didn’t look too victorious now.

After introductions all around, the family listened as St.
John delved into the coroner’s preliminary findings, keeping most of the gory
details to himself, but telling them enough to watch their faces go cold with
anger at the loss of the woman who had been their wife, mother, sister, and
aunt.

St. John had done this many times before. It was never easy.
But he never failed to search the faces of family members for a certain type of
reaction, an emotion, an indication of how they took the news. Now was no
exception.

The family had practical questions, so before wrapping up
their visit, St. John briefly addressed the family’s concerns about how long it
would take before the autopsy was completed and how long the body would remain
at the morgue. After answering a few more pertinent questions about what
happened next in the investigation, both detectives were escorted from the room
by the butler.

Once they were out of earshot, Dan turned to Max and said,
“Well, they didn’t buy the suicide angle. But that’s the damnedest thing, Max.
Did you notice the lack of tears, no crying, no hysterics, no emotion from any
of them, just cool, collected faces? Am I jaded? What happened to telling the
family about a death and having just one family member in the room show some
grief, or shed a few tears over the deceased?”

“The whole scene reminded me when we told Gloria Gandis the
news about her sister. She didn’t shed a tear. And when we told Kit Griffin
there were no tears there either.”

“Might have been in shock.” His gut told him Max was heading
down the wrong path as far as Kit Griffin was concerned. But he had no wish to
butt heads with his partner.

“They may not cry, but they do drink since hearing the news.
There wasn’t a sober face in the crowd, and it’s what, a little after seven in
the morning?” 

“Angry too. Do you think old Sumner Boyd would do something
stupid on his own?”

“No. The family’s got more money than God. He’d hire it out
if he had to though. Wouldn’t get his own hands dirty, now would he?”

“So what’s the significance of those gold cowboys left
behind? Any ideas?”

Max shook his head. “Not sure. But I know we find out where
our number one suspect was when Jessica Boyd died.”

Baffled at his partner’s attitude toward Kit Griffin, Dan
turned to stare before deliberately causing his face to go blank. “You think
Kit Griffin did this?”

Stubbornly, Max thought of Jake Boston and set his jaw.
“Yeah, I do.” And he so wanted it to be true.

Kit’s eyes opened slowly, squinted against the bright
sunlight pouring in from the skylight above the bed, temporarily blinding her.
Intense pain in the top of her head made it feel twice as heavy, twice as big.
The bed gently rocked. This wasn’t home. When she tried to sit up, the
throbbing in her head increased. She tried to think, but it hurt to form a
thought. Her fiber-dry mouth yearned for water. Her stomach flip-flopped.

All she could think about now was the wine she’d had last
night at dinner. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but last night, like the idiot
she was, Jake had kept pouring and she’d kept picking up the glass.

Now when she rose to a sitting position her head spun and
matched the roiling in her stomach. It was then she noticed she wore only her
bra and panties. She looked around the master stateroom. Her sand-stained black
dress from the night before was nowhere in sight. Still a little dizzy, she
eased her legs over to the side of the bed. A glance at her watch told her it
was a few minutes past eight.

She wondered absently if Baylee had opened up the shop.
Right now, with her head doing a drum solo, she didn’t much care. When she
tried to move, tried to look around for her cell phone, her head and stomach
had other ideas. Okay, so she hadn’t been up at the crack of dawn to bake
goodies this morning. So what? First time in four years, she thought, as she
sunk back down a little. So, she’d be late. And she wouldn’t have baked goods
to offer. Big deal.

And oh, how her head hurt.

A soft knock on the door gave her reason to finish the weak
crawl the rest of the way out of bed. She stood up on shaky knees.
Instinctively grabbing the top sheet from the bed, she loosely held it around
her body before answering in a weak voice, “Come in.” The sudden reach for the
sheet left her lightheaded. Her head hurt so badly she thought she might go
cross-eyed.

Jake slid open the stateroom door and asked, “How you
feeling?”

“I’ve had better mornings.”

He walked further inside the room, dressed ready for work in
tailored pants and a white shirt, tie-less. Why did he always look like he’d
just come from an executive version of a hot body contest while she resembled a
drunk on a three-day binge?

He reached his hand out to hers and turned her palm up,
dropped three aspirins into it and waved a cold bottle of water in front of
her. As if reading her mind, he said, “The aspirin is for the pounding in your
head and the water’s for your dry throat. I’d take several sips of water before
trying to swallow the aspirin.”

Grateful for the thought, she reached to take the water and
lost her hold on the sheet. It dropped to the floor in a puddle at her feet.
Her head was pounding so hard she let the sheet fall without contest as she
stood in the man’s bedroom in her black underwear.

Having seen the underwear in greater detail last night and
for a good deal longer, in a playful mood, Jake’s eyebrows went up as he told
her, “I like this view way better than with the dress on.”

Self-conscious, she tried to disregard the moment and in a
hushed voice simply said, “Thanks for the water and aspirin.” Per his
instructions, she opened the bottle of water and took several gulps before
downing the aspirin.

He laid two towels on the bed and some clothes. “Why don’t
you take a shower? You’ll feel better. You can wear one of my shirts and a pair
of my shorts.”

With no intentions of arguing the point, she merely nodded,
and muttered, “Good idea.”

Twenty minutes later, she walked out of the stateroom
carrying her dress, which she’d found hanging in the head, but was now wadded
up in a ball under her arm. She sat carefully down in the salon with her wet
hair braided down her back, dressed in Jake’s clothes: a dark blue Cal Berkeley
T-shirt, and a navy pair of baggy athletic shorts that Kit had pinned to fit.

At that moment, Jake grinned at her and she recognized it
for what it was. That delicious smile of his had been at the root of her
drinking one glass of wine after another trying to prove to him she was no
longer a kid. As if he knew what she was thinking, he avoided the obvious,
quietly asking, “Feel better? How’s your head?”

She didn’t answer, but instead looked down at her bare feet,
and mumbled, “I can’t find my shoes.”

“They’re around here somewhere. They can’t go far on a boat.
They’ll turn up before we leave.”

Barely audible, she asked, “Why are you so cheery?”

“Am I? I’ve been up longer. Would you like some breakfast?”

If she ate right now, she’d up-chuck for sure. “Coffee.
Black.”

He poured her a steaming cup and set it on the table in
front of her, then slid in across from her.

 The aroma of the brew gave her hope. She didn’t trust one
hand to hold the cup steady, so she used both to pick up the mug and hold it to
her lips. She blew into the liquid until it cooled enough to drink, then took a
long, slow sip. Never one to remain quiet for long, she asked in a low tone,
“How long have you been up?”