The Heir (7 page)

“I’m not going to tour the opera.”

“Dear, I’ve told presidents of the United States that your father-was unavailable, but this is one lady I’m leaving to you.”

At two o’clock sharp I arrived at the gilded portal of that great and so very important and beneficial institute, our state’s own War-wick Opera House—home of that beacon of enlightenment and uplifting purpose, that instrument of civilizing culture, that bedrock of society, the State Opera. For over two hours I was honored, even privileged, to be in the company of the dignified, gracious chairwoman of that splendid temple of worthiness. She was all that a person of such exalted position should be, and much, much more. Much, much, much more. The sights I saw that precious day will stay with me always. But even that magnificent stage, the glistening lobby—itself a showcase of the first order—paled compared to the words I heard, the many, many descriptions, enlightening lectures, entire college courses on the sophisticated genius, the ancient history, the crucial importance of the most devastatingly wonderful achievement in the entire accomplishment of all mankind, the opera. It was with the greatest regret, and difficulty, that I cut short my visit to that hallowed place due to other pressing business, and I could only hope that my donation, on the spot, of one hundred thousand dollars would somehow mitigate my praiseworthy and admirable hostess’ sublime sorrow that I could not stay for the second half of her tour.

“You got off easy,” Fred said when I called.

“Melvin put up with that battleship?”

“He called her Stalin. You’re going to be on her board of directors.”

“No.”

“Yes you are, Jason.”

“I said no.”

“It doesn’t matter what you say to me. You’ll have to deal with her.”

“Fred, after this afternoon, I could do it. I could say no to her.”

“Don’t. Kindly say that you would be honored. Every person who could realistically be a rival to you is on that board, including Harry Bright and Bob Forrester. She has forced them all onto it, and you need to be there.”

I was not in a good mood when I got home. Katie steered clear, and I had to sit still in my office for a few minutes before I could trust myself with the telephone.

“Yes, Jason?” said Pamela’s voice. She sounded ready to be yelled at.

“It’s okay. I won’t blame you. This is something else. I need an office. Did Melvin just work out of his house?”

“Mostly. And he had offices at two of his plants, but he didn’t use them much.”

“Who’s on the top floor of Fred’s building?”

“Oh, let’s see. I don’t know, but I think it’s bank executive offices.”

My building, my bank. “I want some rooms up there.”

“An office and a conference room?”

“Put in an office for you, and I don’t need a conference room. And I want a secure room for storage.”

“I’ll find a contractor who can do it quickly.”

From my bedroom window, I could see the downtown skyline ten miles away. For a while I watched the building I’d just confiscated. What was happening? In two days I’d become what I thought I would never be. I stared at the mirror, and the Why Am I Here? wasn’t there. There was someone else looking back at me out of my eyes—the Big Bad Wolf looking out from under Granny’s nightcap.

It was Melvin.

Why had he done this to me? What was he thinking, when he sat there in Fred’s parlor and signed that new will? And then tried out the aerodynamic properties of a Mercedes sedan. If that merging of car and tree had happened two hours earlier, Nathan Kern would be jousting with Clinton Grainger and the governor. And I would not be on Felicity’s board. I was having hard feelings toward Nathan.

I looked back out at the skyline, black against the late afternoon. I could almost touch it. Instead, the phone rang, and it touched me.

There was an interesting new note in Fred’s voice, of anger and annoyance and maybe worry.

“Come here, right away.”

Billionaires are not talked to in this manner, and Fred knew it. “What’s wrong?” I said.

“The governor has made his move.”

I gave Katie instructions to keep Nathan entertained if I was late.

I was there in twenty-five minutes, and someone was in my chair.

“Jason, this is Detective Wilcox, of the state police.” Fred was exasperated.

“Thank you for coming,” the man said, and my first impression was of the nastiest little mustache I had ever seen in my life. We completed the formalities.

Detective Wilcox was very good. His political instinct was sharp as a knife. He apparently had long had the wealthy-industrialist-and-high-powered-lawyer beat, and he was respectful, confident, circumspect, authoritative, well-dressed, trustworthy, loyal, clean, and reverent. His only flaw was the little pencil mustache. What was he thinking?

“Now, Detective Wilcox, let’s get down to business.” Fred leaned forward imperiously. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how busy a man Mr. Boyer is.” A man of Wilcox’s experience would understand that this had better be very important.

He was not intimidated. He turned to me. “I’m afraid we have some disturbing information for you, Mr. Boyer, concerning your father’s death.”

“What?”

“His car had been tampered with.”

It was suddenly the same feeling I’d had when Fred had read the will—ring of iron around my chest.

“We completed our laboratory analysis last week, and there is no doubt,” Wilcox was saying. “The brake lines had been drained.”

“I see.”

I could see. That rotten, wretched old man, that idiot! An accident maybe can’t be prevented, but getting murdered was pure malicious carelessness, specifically to spite me and ruin my life.

“This is a serious statement, Mr. Wilcox.” Fred was in high dudgeon himself. “Do you realize the implications?”

“Very much. We have examined the evidence in every way, and we are completely sure.”

I could feel a new wave of rage building, and this one was a tsunami. I stuffed it down to save for later, when I could really let it rip. “You had better be sure,” I said.

Fred switched from indignant to menacing. “Very sure.”

The mustache was not impressed. “We are. May I ask you some questions, Mr. Boyer?”

“Not yet.” Fred leaned back in his chair. “Is Mr. Boyer under any suspicion?”

“We do not have any specific suspects.”

“That is not a specific answer.”

Wilcox frowned. “Everyone associated with Melvin Boyer has to be regarded with suspicion at this stage of the investigation.”

Fred turned to me. “Do you understand, Jason? Be very careful in what you say.”

I was not in any careful state of mind. “Why did you wait a week to tell me?”

“We were verifying the evidence.”

Verifying
the evidence. The first word that came to my mind was
fabricating
. Fred had said that the governor’s response would be unmistakable, and I was not mistaking it. I was so angry at Melvin for leaving this mess.

“Right,” I said. “I’ll make a statement. I have no idea who might have killed Melvin, if anyone really did. He was a wealthy and powerful man, and there would be lots of people who were enemies or benefited from his death. You know all that. I don’t know anything else.”

“Could you list these enemies?” Wilcox’s mustache quivered. I was supposed to start fingering people?

“You find them. I’m not going to do your job.”

“Who benefited from his death?”

“Mr. Spellman will provide you with a copy of his will. Other than that, if you want to go fishing, you’ll have to find a different pond.”

Wilcox could see his fishing license was about to expire. “Mr. Boyer, don’t you want us to find your father’s murderer?” Was he surprised, or was this an attempt at intimidation? I was just too mad to put up with it.

“He’s dead, and the rest doesn’t matter. And if anyone is trying to use this, or has manufactured this, to cause me trouble, then he isn’t very bright.”

Wilcox blinked. “Let me assure you we will use discretion. We’re only investigating a crime. We have no other purposes.”

Fred snorted. “I understand your purpose.”

Wilcox had left. I was in a hurry, but the situation required discussion. “Is this the governor asserting his independence?”

“Certainly.” Fred scowled. “He wants to show us we are not above the law, and he can yank our chain whenever he wants. The police will question your family and associates, and embarrassing information will be leaked.”

I was thinking about our special legal framework. “That could hurt Bright as badly as us.”

“He controls the police. They’ll uncover whatever he wants and nothing else. But the investigation could spread anywhere. The Boyer name will be demeaned.”

There was a lot of static in my brain. “Do you think Melvin was murdered?”

“It was my first assumption when I heard about the accident, but I didn’t think it was appropriate to discuss. There were other things more important. And for the governor’s purposes it would certainly be convenient . . . but not necessary.” Then he paused. “I’m sorry, Jason. I didn’t mean to trivialize your father’s death. We should take some time to think this through before we plan our next step.”

“It does matter whether he was killed. That would mean there was a murderer somewhere.”

“Yes . . . Are you suggesting we actually cooperate with the police?”

“I don’t know.” There were thoughts under the static. “They’re going to need a suspect. What if there isn’t one, or there is one but they can’t find him?”

“Or if he, or she, isn’t appropriate for their purposes. Exactly. And you would be an obvious choice. This is a substantial attack, and I have no doubt it will be used for political purposes.”

I was sorting out my anger. There was the anger at Melvin for leaving me his money, without telling me first. Then there was the anger at him for leaving me his Special Framework. Now I had a third layer of anger at him for getting murdered, or at least appearing to, which was ammunition in the hands of a belligerent governor.

But there was anger beyond that, and it was pointed at that governor, and I did not feel like giving in to his attack. Maybe I was still planning to get rid of Melvin’s money, but at the moment I started having other plans.

“What should we do?” I asked.

Fred was grim, but he’d calmed down. “For the moment, wait. He is just setting out a negotiating position. Next, he’ll let us know what he wants.”

“This doesn’t look like negotiations.”

“Oh, it is. That’s all it is. This is how the world operates, Jason.”

“But Bright, or Grainger, or whoever this is, could get anyone they want convicted. Would they do that?”

“If the stakes are high enough.” And Fred smiled. Maybe he liked high stakes. “Eric. Angela. Katie. And, of course, especially you.”

I don’t like high stakes, and I was using a lot of energy keeping my lid on. “You’re the last person who saw him alive, Fred.”

7

Traffic was thin, and twenty minutes was just enough time to be home by eight. I thought for a moment about indulging my fury, but there were too many other things to think through.

Had he really been murdered? Sure. Why not? It was way more likely than an accident. So who did it?

Maybe somebody he’d crushed, or was currently crushing, or about to crush. I had a better idea after the last few days of all the crushees, but that was for the police. There were other names rattling about.

Brake tampering meant someone who worked on cars. Benefiting from his death meant someone who needed money. Two plus two equals . . .

I got out my cell phone and dialed.

“Pamela, I have another job for you.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Get a credit report on Eric. He has no idea how much he’s been spending for the last few years, and I’d like to make sure he’s not in too much trouble on his credit cards.”

“I’ll e-mail it to you tonight.”

“Thank you.”

Or maybe Fred had been thinking I would be easier to control than Melvin had been. Maybe he and Clinton Grainger got together for lunch every week and commiserated about puppets who didn’t do as they were told.

Or was Angela the kitten really a tiger? Who knew what went on in that relationship.

This was not going to be pretty. I’d already convicted three people who I should have been trusting.

Katie was a lot better off with Melvin dead than with him alive. I missed my exit over that one.

But neither Katie nor Eric knew the will had been changed.

Maybe it was the governor going for a double dip, getting rid of Melvin with the option of pinning it on the old man’s heir. That was better, if not very real.

What else? The most obvious motive of all. He died the night he changed his will. Were the brakes meant to fail on the way
to
Fred’s house? If it had been two hours earlier, Bishop Kern would have been pope.

“Katie.”

“Where are you, Jason?”

“I’m on the way. Is Nathan there?”

“I think he’s just pulling up.”

“I’ll be about ten minutes.”

Money gave lots of people a reason to kill Melvin. Now the money was mine. What am I doing here? Why am I here? Is this what money and power are all about? I was actually just sitting at the curb down the block, but I needed a little more time. Nathan Kern might know about why Melvin changed the will. I’d cool off and give Katie time to soften him up.

Katie had been shopping.

The table was set with elegant heirloom china and silver and crystal that had been in the family for generations—just not our family; I’d never seen the stuff before. Rosita was setting out a floral centerpiece, and she had a new uniform on, very professional, with her head held high.

I found the merchants’ darling in the parlor entertaining our guest. She had spent on herself no less than on anything else, but still exquisitely. The dress was dark green, the scarf was the life work of a thousand silkworms educated in every nuance of impressionism, and the emerald pin holding it on her shoulder made an even greater impression. She hadn’t taken risks with her hair, which was still long and loose, as I liked it.