Secret Combinations (14 page)

He put the phone bill down and looked at her credit card bills. The most expensive item on the card Lydia used most often was lunch at the Ritz Hotel. There were also some purchases at Harrod's department store and other shops around town. Nothing unusual stood out.

He put the credit card statements aside and continued. The rest of the papers in the file were for property taxes, health insurance, and various other official documents, each in chronological order going back several years. Kenyon thought about his own filing system, a cardboard box that he kept under the bed. He couldn't imagine anyone ever making sense of that mess.

Kenyon dug Lydia's Filofax out from the leather portfolio and opened it up. He hadn't examined it that closely the day before. This time, he flipped to the night of her death: Saturday, July 2. “Auction 8:00
PM
,” was written neatly in ink.

Out of curiosity, Kenyon flipped through the days after she was murdered. On Wednesday, July sixth, his own thirty-third birthday, she had written, “Call Jack.”

Kenyon put down the diary and stared up at the skylight, wondering. Why had Lydia planned on calling him on his birthday? He opened her address book and looked through it. His phone number wasn't listed. He concluded it must be some other Jack.

He flipped back to the days before her death. Lydia's appointment with Tanya to sign her will was marked in on Thursday, June 30. There was very little else, except for an afternoon appointment at “
TEQ
” on Wednesday, June 29; a cryptic “Techno 69” written in on Tuesday, June 28; and “Archie Lump, 100k,” on Monday, June 27.

Kenyon wondered what the large sum was for; perhaps a payment? He suddenly realized that he hadn't seen any banking statements. He went back to the steel filing cabinet, but there were no other files in the personal drawer. He opened the business drawer, but the bank statements were all for the gallery.

He went back to the desk and sat down in the chair. The desk contained three drawers; a narrow one under the desk surface for holding pens and paper-clips, and two side drawers large enough to hold folders.

Kenyon tried the side drawers; they were locked. He examined his set of gallery keys, but none of them fit the desk. He finally pulled out a pointy steel letter opener and, with a silent apology to Lydia, jimmied the drawers open.

The top drawer was empty, but Kenyon hit pay dirt on the second. He drew out a file marked “Personal Chequing,” and flipped it open. The latest bank statement was also for the month of May. The canceled cheques showed various payments to creditors and utilities. Kenyon glanced down at the bottom and whistled; Lydia had over three hundred thousand pounds in cash in the account.

Where was the next statement? Kenyon dug through the pile until he found an envelope from Lloyd's Bank, then ripped it open. It was the record for the month of June. Kenyon scanned down the page until he came to June 27; Lydia had withdrawn one hundred thousand pounds in cash that day. It had to have been for “Archie Lump.” He returned to the address book, but there was no one by the name of Lump listed in it.

Kenyon searched through the older statements from March and April. The most cash Lydia had drawn out of her account at any one time over the previous year was five thousand pounds. The one hundred thousand pounds was definitely unusual. Who was Archie Lump?

“'Allo, 'allo!”

Kenyon started in surprise. Happy Harry was standing in the doorway. The cabby flexed a thumb over his shoulder. “Taxi's out front. You ready to go?”

Kenyon suddenly remembered his lunch with O'Neill. He glanced at his watch; it was almost 12:30
PM
. “I'll be right out,” he said.

Harry stared at Kenyon closely. “You all right, then?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. I just need a minute to clear my head.”

Harry left, and Kenyon took a moment to gather up the Filofax and bank statements. He locked Lydia's office door and headed toward the front of the gallery. He doubted Tanya would be much interested in getting something to eat after he told her his news.

Kenyon sat quietly in the
back of Harry's taxi as the cabby wheeled through central London. He stared out at the busy boulevards, oblivious to the double-decker buses, street buskers, and crowds of tourists. His mind was still numb from the discovery of Lydia's murder. He shook his head angrily, trying to draw himself out of the shock-induced lethargy.

Gonelli was right; most murderers knew the victim. Certainly, Ilsa had a motive: Lydia was fooling around with her husband. And Legrand's sneaky trick of tailing Kenyon back from Tanya's was suspicious as hell. And as far as Bruno Ricci was concerned, Kenyon trusted the gallery manager about as far as he could throw him.

But none of that added up to murder in Kenyon's book; especially when you considered the trouble the killer had gone to in order to cover up his crime. It was too well planned, too methodical.

Too professional?

Kenyon sat up straight in his seat. Was this the work of a hired assassin? The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. A late-night attack on a lonely country road meant there would be no witnesses, the use of the laser pen all but guaranteed nobody would spot the murder. But that kind of planning went far beyond a Mafia hit-man; you would almost expect someone with
CIA
training to come up with the plan.

Someone like Charlie Dahg?

It was just possible, thought Kenyon. He worked it through in his mind. Lydia was killed around midnight on Saturday, July 2. Because of the eight-hour time difference, Dahg could have caught an early morning flight from Heathrow on Sunday, and still been in San Francisco that afternoon in time to meet Simon at the hotel.

But why would he kill Lydia in the first place? What possible connection did she have with the stolen software, other than the fact she was Kenyon's aunt? No, it just didn't make sense. He warned himself not to get lost down some dead-end conspiracy nightmare. He needed to look for the facts.

Traffic was slow, and it took the cabby almost forty minutes to reach Tanya's office. Harry shook his head. In all that time, Kenyon hadn't uttered a word.

“You sure you're all right, guv?” Harry asked as Kenyon got out of the cab.

“I'll be fine,” Kenyon said. “Wait for me.”

O'Neill was waiting in the reception area when Kenyon entered. The pretty lawyer had taken off her solicitor's robe to reveal a light, raspberry-colored cotton dress. “You're late,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

“Sorry, we got held up in traffic.”

“Not to worry.” O'Neill began moving toward the front door. “I'm sure they'll still have two pints left when we get there.”

Kenyon reached out and took her by the arm. “Tanya, there's something we have to talk about, first.”

His tone was enough to make the solicitor stop dead in her tracks. “What is it, Jack?”

Kenyon glanced over his shoulder at the clerk, who was suddenly very interested in their conversation. “Not here. Let's go back to your office.”

Puzzled, O'Neill led Kenyon down through the maze of corridors to her office. When they entered, she closed the door, then crossed the room and sat behind her desk.

Kenyon leaned against the closed door. He stared at O'Neill, suddenly unsure what to say. He wondered how close had Tanya been to Lydia. She had wept at the recollection of her funeral; how distraught would the lawyer be to learn her friend had been murdered? He stood for several seconds, mute.

O'Neill's look of concern slowly became mixed with impatience. “Well, what is it, Jack?” she asked.

He licked his lips, then rushed it out; “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Lydia was murdered.”

O'Neill tilted her head to one side, as if she hadn't heard quite right. “Murdered?” she repeated. “I don't understand. She died in a car crash. It was an accident.”

“No,” said Kenyon. “That's what they wanted everyone to believe. Someone forced her off the road and killed her intentionally.”

“Did the police tell you this?” O'Neill said, her eyes wide.

Kenyon shook his head. “I discovered it when I was opening up some mail in Lydia's office.” He explained the letter from the Organ Donor Foundation, and his talk with Dr. Merton.

O'Neill struggled hard to retain her composure. “Did you contact Scotland Yard?”

Kenyon nodded. “Yeah, I told them.”

“What did they say?”

“They said there wasn't enough evidence to warrant an investigation.”

O'Neill shook her head. “I don't understand.”

“It's not so difficult. Scotland Yard doesn't like somebody coming into their turf and telling them how to do their business.”

“What do you mean?”

“They'd rather ignore a murder than admit they fucked up.”

O'Neill stared at Kenyon, incredulous. “I can hardly believe
that
.”

“Oh, you can believe it, all right. I've seen it happen a dozen times when the
FBI
comes into a case. Some cops would just as soon let the bad guys walk than let the Feds in.”

O'Neill picked at a pen on her desk. “What are we going to do?”

Kenyon stared into O'Neill's eyes. “If Scotland Yard won't help, then I'm going to find the killer myself.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I'm going to need as much information as I can get about the last week of her life.”

“What kind of information?” asked O'Neill.

Kenyon sat down. “I've got some of the stuff: bank statements, credit card and telephone bills, but I need more. I need to build up a profile of her last days.”

O'Neill squared her shoulders. “How can I help?”

“How about the auction she organized at Ilsa's home the night she was killed?” asked Kenyon. “Do you have any information about that?”

O'Neill thought for a moment. “Would an invitation list help?”

“That's a good start. I'll also need anything else you can find.”

O'Neill picked up a cardboard file box from the floor and pulled out a booklet. She handed it to Kenyon. “This is the auction brochure. It shows all the items up for bid that night, and who donated them.”

Kenyon opened the brochure at a random page and glanced inside. It showed the color photograph of a small bronze statue of a nude dancer. The text below the photo explained that the figure had been carved in wax by the French artist Degas, and cast after his death. At the bottom of the text was written, “Suggested opening bid: £100,000.”

Kenyon suddenly remembered the notation in the Lydia's Filofax. “Lydia took one hundred thousand pounds cash out of her banking account just a few days before she was killed,” he said. “Do you have any idea why?”

O'Neill looked up from digging around in the cardboard file box. “No, I don't.”

Kenyon continued. “There was also a name, Archie Lump.”

O'Neill opened her mouth several times to speak, but nothing came out.

“Are you all right?” asked Kenyon, alarmed.

O'Neill groped for a second before replying. “I'm sorry, I just can't think. This is all so much . . .”

Kenyon came around the desk and took her in his arms. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know.” She pointed at the box. “What's the point of all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Kenyon stared at O'Neill intently. “To find her killer.”

“Finding Lydia's killer won't bring her back,” she said, struggling against him.

Kenyon let go and stood back a pace. “Don't you want to see her murderer caught?”

O'Neill folded her arms, rubbing them as though against the sudden cold. “I'm frightened.”

“Don't worry,” he said, stepping closer, “everything will be all right.”

O'Neill looked up into his eyes. “Jack, leave this to the police.”

“I can't. They won't do anything.”

“Please. Just leave it alone.” O'Neill placed a hand on his arm.

Kenyon backed away, confused. He'd thought Tanya was Lydia's friend. “What are you
really
frightened of?”

“A week ago,
you
didn't even care if Lydia existed.” O'Neill pointed a finger in Kenyon's face. “Now you just come in here, a complete stranger, and you want to crawl inside her skin and rip her apart.”

“That's not true.”

“Isn't her money enough for you?” asked O'Neill. She began to cry. “Must you destroy her, as well?”

Kenyon was filled with a flood of anger and frustration. He gripped the top of a chair, then turned and rushed from the office and down the hallway, out into the clear sunlight.

Destroy her? he thought. How does wanting to find out who her killer is
destroy
her?

Harry was sitting in his cab, the driver's door open to the curb, talking on his cell phone. He looked up as Kenyon bolted outside, and quickly shut the phone. “Oi, what's this?” he called out, as Kenyon climbed into the back seat.

“Go!” shouted Kenyon.

Harry glanced at the solicitor's office, but no one was pursuing. “Right you are, then,” he said, turning on the diesel. “Where to?”

“Just get me out of here.”

Harry turned the cab into the road and motored off. “Bad news?” he asked.

Kenyon looked up at the rearview mirror, meeting the cabby's eyes. “The worst.”

Harry glanced at the traffic, then back at Kenyon. “Sometimes it helps to talk, mate. Why don't we find a nice spot an' go for a lager. The round's on me.”

When Kenyon didn't reply, Harry took it as a yes. He wheeled around a corner and parked adjacent to a pub called the Final Drop. Its sign featured a hangman's noose.