The Little Death (24 page)

I
was about to speak when, staring at his gaunt ancient face, the bones so
prominent that I could have been addressing a skull, I realized that I was
staring at Hugh’s murderer.

“You,”
I said. “Robert Paris was your creature. He couldn’t have employed an assassin
with you controlling his money, unless you agreed to it.”

Smith
looked away.

“And
of course you agreed to it. You had as much or more to lose as Robert Paris had
his earlier murders been exposed. You knew that Paris killed his wife and son
and you knew that Hugh was the rightful heir to the judge’s share of the Linden
fortune. For twenty years you helped cover up those murders and defraud Hugh of
his inheritance.” I advanced toward Smith, who moved a step back. “But Hugh
thought you would help him and he came to you. You leased him the house so you
could keep an eye on him. He trusted you. You betrayed him.”

The
two guards had come up behind Smith, their hands on their guns. I stopped.
Smith glanced over his shoulder and ordered them to retreat. They stepped back.

“Hugh
hated his grandfather almost to the point of psychosis,” Smith said, “and he
knew that I was no friend of Robert’s.” He smiled, bitterly. “You see, Mr.
Rios, I made a pact with the devil, but I could never bring myself to enjoy his
company.”

“That
makes no difference.”

“Perhaps
not. Still, I encouraged Hugh’s hatred of his grandfather — partly, I suppose,
to deflect any suspicion from myself but also because Hugh gave vent to the
hatred I felt for Robert Paris, my sister’s murderer, my nephew’s murderer.”

“But
you danced to his tune.”

“Yes,
I see that clearly now, but at the time, I was blind. One’s own motives are
always lost in mists of rationalizations. Hugh found out about the murders and
expected my help in exposing his grandfather. If I refused to help him he would
become suspicious of me, perhaps even guess my complicity. But I could hardly
agree to help him expose Robert without also exposing myself.”

“Did
you tell him about your part in the cover-up?”

“Yes.”
Smith said.

“And
he went berserk.”

“Yes.”

“Threatened
to expose you as well.”

“Yes.”

“So
you had him killed.”

“Yes.”

Smith
brought his hand to his throat, as if protecting it. Suddenly, I saw the scene
that had occurred between Smith and

Hugh
when Smith revealed his part in the cover-up. Hugh must have responded like a
madman, physically attacking his great- uncle. In a way, that might have made
it easier for Smith to give the order to have Hugh killed; to regard Hugh as a
madman on the verge of bringing the entire family to ruin and obloquy. Smith
believed he served a legitimate purpose in having Hugh murdered, but in fact he
was merely acting as Robert Paris’s agent.

Smith
and I had squared off, facing each other tensely across a few feet of shadowy
space.

“That’s
not the end of the story,” I said. “You had Hugh killed by Peter Barron. But
where is Peter Barron?”

“Dead,”
the old man muttered.

“His
life for Hugh’s?”

“Is
that so rough a measure of justice?”

“Yes,
from my perspective, especially when you weigh Aaron Gold’s death in the
balance.’’

Smith
shook his head. “That was unintentional. Mr. Gold worked for the firm that
handled Robert’s personal accounts. Shortly after Hugh’s death, the partner who
worked closest with Robert discovered certain documents missing that showed the
extent to which I controlled all of Robert’s transactions. There were also some
personal papers missing, among them, Hugh’s letters to Robert. The partner
conducted a quiet investigation. The documents were found at Mr. Gold’s home
and the letters, as you know, at your apartment.”

“Aaron
had discovered that Paris wasn’t in control of his affairs but that you were,”
I said, “and he reasoned that you, not Paris, were behind Hugh’s death.”

“Something
like that,” Smith said. “No one ever had an opportunity to talk to Mr. Gold.”

“You
saw to that,” I said.

“No,”
Smith repeated wearily. “That was Peter Barron acting on his own. He told me he’d
gone to talk to Mr. Gold, that there was a struggle and the gun went off.”

“There
was no struggle,” I said, “Aaron was shot as he sat in an armchair getting
drunk.”

“I
didn’t believe Barron,” Smith said, “since he had reasons of his own for
wanting the identity of Hugh’s killer secret.”

“He
was the trigger man.”

Smith
nodded. “So now you know everything,” he said, “and I repeat my original
question: What will it cost me to persuade you to drop the lawsuit?”

I
shook my head. “It’s never been a matter of money. I want an admission of
guilt. I want that admission in open court and for the record. I want the law
to run its course. No secret pay-offs, no cover-ups.”

“My
lawyers were right,” Smith said, “I shouldn’t have spoken to you. And yet I’m
glad I did.” He hunched his shoulders as if suddenly cold. “I’m not an evil
man, or at least, I can still appreciate an act of human decency. I appreciate
your devotion to Hugh, Mr. Rios, but you must understand that I too will have
the law run its course and I will fight you with every resource to which I have
access.”

“I
understand that,” I said, “but I have two things on my side that you do not.”

“What?”

“Time,”
I said, “and justice.”

A
ghostly smile played across Smith’s withered lips. “Goodbye, Mr. Rios,” Smith
said, “and good luck.”

He
turned and strode the length of the gallery. The two guards fell in behind him.
I waited a moment and then followed him out. I got to the top of the steps
outside the museum in time to watch the silver Rolls slip away into the wood. I
jogged down the steps.

I
turned down the collar of my sweatshirt and spoke into the thin metal disc
attached there. “He’s gone,” I said. “I hope you got it all down.”

A
moment later the white van moved into view from behind the museum. The
passenger door swung open and Terry Ormes got out, followed by Sonny Patterson
pushing his way out from the back of the van. Terry had insisted that I be
wired for sound in the event that I was being led into a trap, so that the cops
could respond. Neither of us had expected the conversation we

had
just heard. Patterson had signed on at the last minute, in the event that
something useful was said. He walked toward me looking like a man who’d just
heard an earful.

“Your
little speech about time and justice,” Patterson said, “ought to play real well
in front of the grand jury.”

“You
recorded it?”

“The
whole thing.”

“Then
there will be a grand jury.”

“You
bet,” he said, “and if they don’t come back with an indictment, I’m washing my
hands of this profession.”

Terry
who had come up beside us, said, “Good work, Henry.”

“It’s
not exactly how I thought it would go down.”

“I’ll
guess you’ll be amending the complaint in your lawsuit to allege Smith as a
defendant,” Patterson said.

I
shrugged. “I’ll talk to my client. She may not want to pursue the case after
the grand jury concludes its business.”

“You
wanted it to be Robert Paris, didn’t you?” Terry said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Smith
is as much a victim as Hugh. Smith was a moderately good man who chose
expediency over justice the one time it really mattered. But Robert Paris was
the real thing, he was evil. I pity Smith.”

Patterson
looked at me disdainfully. “That old public defender mentality,” he said. “People
don’t commit crimes, society does. You know Latin?”

I
shook my head.

He
said, “
Durum hoc est sed
ita lex scripta est
— It is hard but
thus the law is written.”

“Where’s
that from?”

“The
Code of Justinian, and it was engraved over the entrance of the library of my
law school — which was not as big a deal as your law school here at the
university, but those of us who went there were hungry in the way that justice
is a hunger.”

He
turned from us and walked away. Terry and I looked at each other. What
Patterson wanted was clear: a fair trial and a guilty verdict. My own motives
were hopelessly confused — my hunger had never been as simple as Sonny’s.

“Maybe,”
I said to Terry, “I never wanted justice but just to vent my grief about Hugh.”

She
shook her head. “Grief is half of justice,” she said, and added, a moment
later, “the other half is hope.”