Trust Me (33 page)

He looked down again, about to continue, then it hit him like a wave of ice water.

Henry was looking at him.

Max had no idea how he knew it, but the difference between this moment and all of the others before it was like the difference
between life and death. His grandfather was awake.

He rose to his feet. “Grandfather?” he said hoarsely. “Can you hear me?”

Henry lifted his hand weakly, his gaze fixed on Max’s face. His swollen lips moved, and a faint sound came out, like the rustle
of a brown paper bag, or the whisper of dry leaves in the wind.

“What?” Max asked. “What did you say?”

He leaned over the bed. Henry’s hand reached for his shoulder and landed there, light and fragile as a bird.

“I can’t hear you,” Max said, frantically trying to figure out what the old man wanted. Water, painkillers, his doctor? He
knew that he should call for the nurse, but his grandfather was holding his shoulder, and at that moment nothing could have
induced Max to pull away. He leaned closer so that his head was right next to Henry’s. He hardly dared to breathe. A lump
had formed in his throat, and his eyes were burning. With fierce concentration, he listened as the old man began to whisper
again.

This time, he understood.

“I dreamed,” his grandfather said, “of the Sirens.”

Several hours later, Max phoned Carly. She gasped when he told her the news, and then promptly burst into tears.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, and he heard her rummaging around for a tissue. “I’m just so glad. Wait, will you hold on for a minute?
I’m going to go into my office and close the door.”

Moments later, she was back on the line, sounding a little steadier. “Oh, Max. I knew it, I knew that he would be all right.
Thank God. Tell me everything. Does he remember anything about the accident?”

She was asking because she wanted to know the truth, Max told himself. Just as he did. Her reaction was everything that it
should have been, but still, there was a dark seed of doubt within him that he could not cast out.

“No. He doesn’t remember anything about that night, or even the few days before it. He’s still very weak, and disoriented.”

“Oh,” she said, and was silent.

“The doctors told me that memory loss surrounding that kind of accident is very typical. It might all come back, and it might
not. So I’m afraid that our star witness is not going to be much help right now.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Carly said, and he listened carefully for nuances in her voice. Did he hear relief? He did, but surely
that was for Henry’s recovery, not for his lack of memory.

“How is he otherwise?” she asked, anxiously. “Does he seem… normal?”

“Yes. They warned me to expect anything: personality changes, strange behavior, confusion. But he seems rational. As far as
I could tell, at least. I’m obviously not qualified to judge whether he’s his old self or not.”

“How long did you talk?”

“Almost an hour. It was very slow, but he’s definitely there.” Just thinking about that conversation made Max feel unsteady.
He swallowed hard and regained control of himself. “He knew who I was. He apologized for not contacting me.”

“Yes,” Carly said softly. “He would.”

“He wanted to know what happened, and how long he had been in the hospital. Then he asked about the animals—if they were all
right. I said that you had been taking good care of them, and that everything at the house was ready for him to come home.”

“Did the doctors say when that might be?”

“Not anytime soon. They’ll be doing a lot of tests over the next few days, and then we’ll know more. He’s having some muscle-control
problems on his left side. They tell me that it can be improved with physical therapy, though.”

The phone crackled briefly. “Where are you?” Carly asked.

“In my car, headed back to the hotel. Then I have a meeting in Santa Clara.”

“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? I’ll be home by seven-thirty.”

He didn’t answer right away. He was tired, bone-tired, and it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. But he wanted to see
her, wanted it badly enough to repress the disquiet in his mind. When he was with Carly, the bands of tension that held him
upright and walked him through his days seemed to loosen, and he felt as if he could breathe freely. With her, the possibility
of a different kind of life rose before him, like the first pale light of dawn on the horizon.

He thought of Nina and her mocking smile.
Do you need her, Max?

He’d had a quick answer then, but he did not have one now. He didn’t understand how one woman could represent both storm and
shelter.
And if I do need her?
He thought of making love to Carly, crushing her to him, always feeling as if he couldn’t hold her closely enough to satisfy
the desire that he felt for her. A long time ago, when he had told Nina that love was just another form of addiction, he had
meant that it was powerful enough to overwhelm and destroy you if you were weak enough to let it. But what if destruction
was not the inevitable outcome? If Carly really was who she seemed to be, then anything might be possible, even the things
that he had never allowed himself to hope for.

“Max?” Carly said, her voice scratchy in the static on the speakerphone. “Did I lose you?”

“No,” he said. “I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

As Max walked through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he passed right by Hector
Gracie without seeing him.

“Mr. Giordano.”

Max stopped and turned around. Gracie was sitting in one of the baroque armchairs that peppered the lobby. Afternoon tea was
being served in the lounge, and the delicate trickle of harp music flowed through the air. The detective rose to his feet.

Max had no idea how the man had known that he would be at the hotel in the middle of the afternoon, and he didn’t care. He
had been wanting an update from Gracie and had tried several times over the weekend to reach him, to no avail.

He nodded briefly. “Detective. Did you get my message?”

“Messages,” Gracie said. “I got them.”

“You take weekends off?”

Gracie gazed expressionlessly at him. “I took a weekend off once. In 1985, when my mother died. This past weekend, I was busy.
If you’re interested, I thought that we could sit down and talk about some things. Okay?”

They took the elevator up to Max’s suite. The detective looked around the large outer room and nodded. “Nice,” he said, and
sat down on the couch.

“Thanks. Do you want something to drink?”

Gracie accepted a Diet Coke. He drank thirstily, then blotted his mustache with a paper cocktail napkin. “A couple of things.
There were scraping marks on the backs of your grandfather’s shoes. Hard to put marks like those on your own heels, so we
can confirm that someone dragged him inside after he fell. Not a big surprise.”

Max nodded. It was not. “What about the house?”

“Not much there,” Gracie said. “Or too much, is another way to put it. Let people walk all over a crime scene for a month,
let a bunch of dogs play on it… you get the idea? Not too useful. We’re checking out a couple of things from the sweep of
the area, but…” he shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“Too bad your patrol officer didn’t do his job a month ago,” Max said.

“He’s not my officer. But I’ve been asking about him. He has a reputation for being a little too eager for his own retirement,
and I’m thinking he’ll get his wish after this.” Gracie grinned.

Barely missing a beat, and without changing the conversational tone of his voice, the detective added, “I’ve got a neighbor
lady across the street who says she was walking her dog and saw a white van coming out of the Tremayne driveway at seven o’clock
on the night of the incident.” He sipped his Diet Coke. “She said it was driving too fast.”

Max felt as if a giant hand had just clenched around his stomach. He was still standing, leaning on the back of the armchair
facing Gracie, and he didn’t speak for a moment. “Did she get a license?” he asked finally.

“Nope. But with the housekeeper’s statement, that makes two witnesses who saw a white van at seven. Interesting, eh?”

Max said nothing.

“Carly Martin tells me that she left the house no later than six-fifteen that evening.”

“There are thousands of white minivans in this city,” Max said. “It could have been anyone.”

“Sure,” Gracie said laconically. “Anyone. But let’s talk a little more about Carly Martin. She seems like a nice young lady.
You’ve known her for about a month? Not too long.”

Until that moment, Max had neither liked nor disliked the detective. Suddenly, he found himself fighting a feeling of absolute
loathing. “Carly did not attack my grandfather. You’re looking at the wrong person.”

“Maybe it was an accident.”

“No. Not possible.” The detective’s eyebrows raised slightly at his tone, and Max realized that he was gripping the back of
the chair. He forced himself to relax.

“Did she know about your grandfather’s trust?” Gracie asked.

“I don’t think so.”

The detective jotted something down in his small notebook. “That nice young lady stands to make a lot of money from the Tremayne
estate,” he remarked.

“So do I,” Max said.

“That’s true, but in your case, Mr. Giordano, I have five people who were sitting in a room with you until 8
P.M.
that night. The meeting went late, eh? I heard that you ordered out Chinese for dinner.”

“Carly did not attack my grandfather,” Max repeated. “She isn’t a violent person. And she loves him.”

The edges of Gracie’s mustache curved up. “I’d love anybody who wanted to give me twenty million dollars. You know for a fact
that she isn’t violent? You ever see her get mad?”

“No more than anyone. Do you have proof that the white van was hers?”

Gracie shook his head. “I’m still looking around.”

“Then you’re wasting your time,” Max said. “And mine. Whoever attacked my grandfather is still out there, and you should be
looking for him.”

“That’s what I’m doing. And no offense, Mr. Giordano, but you’re the one who asked me to do it. I’m not trying to get you
upset, you know? I realize that this is difficult for you. You and Carly Martin have a personal relationship, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Max said.

“Love is a beautiful thing,” the detective said. “My wife’s name is Angela. She and I have been married for thirty-two years,
how about that?”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Now, if I ever thought that Angie was in some kind of trouble, I would do anything I could for her. So I understand
about that, okay? And if it turns out that Carly Martin had something to do with the incident, you’re going to want to help
her in any way that you can, right?”

When Max said nothing, the detective continued. “So you can start by helping me, eh? Like I said, she is a very nice young
lady. If there was a problem at the house that night, some kind of accident, we need to get it straightened out fast so that
we can keep her out of trouble.”

“I’ve told you everything I know,” Max said. “I’m not protecting Carly, or anyone else.”

“Okay. Good.” Gracie nodded. “So did she ever talk to you about her business?”

“Not much.”

“Clinic is doing well? Lots of clients?”

“I have no idea,” Max said. “She seems busy.”

“She had a previous relationship with her business partner, Richard Wexler. Did she tell you about that?”

“Yes,” Max said coldly.

“Do you think that they could still be involved?”

Max recoiled. “What the hell kind of question is that? No, of course not. And what does that have to do with anything?”

Gracie made a few more notes. “Okay,” he said. He finished his drink in a long swallow, set down the glass, and stood up.
“I know you have my phone number. If you think of anything, give me a call.”

“Where are you going?”

“Everywhere. I’ve got a lot to do.” Gracie chuckled suddenly. “And if I get it all done, maybe I can take next weekend off,
eh?”

After the detective left the room, Max picked up the phone and called his lawyer.

“Max, good timing,” Tom Meyer said. “My people got back to me late on Friday regarding the Martin check— that’s why you’re
calling, I assume?”

“Yes. What have you got?”

“Some interesting stuff about her financial situation. It hasn’t shown up on her personal credit report yet, but it will.
You know that she owns a stake in this veterinary clinic where she works, right? About 30 percent. The other 70 percent is
held by a guy named Richard Wexler.”

“I know all of that,” Max said shortly. “What else?”

“Well, it turns out that those two are mortgaged to the hilt. Their primary assets are the clinic building and the medical
equipment, but they have loans out on everything.”

“
What?
” It was the last thing that Max had expected to hear. “Go on,” he said.

“They’ve got two mortgages on the building,” Tom continued. “As far as I can see, they’ve managed to borrow more than their
assets are worth. It’s pretty ugly. And they’re months behind on their payments. The bank is about to start foreclosure proceedings.”

“Jesus Christ,” Max said in a low voice.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Tom said. “Charlotte Martin does have a little bit of savings in the bank, but believe me, it doesn’t
add up to anywhere near the 30 percent of the debt. She’s looking at bankruptcy when this house of cards collapses.”

Max gazed down at the surface of the desk, his eyes picking out imperfections in the polished surface. It was interesting,
he thought clinically, that he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even upset. He was simply numb.

“Listen, Max, this is the woman that your grandfather wants to put in charge of his foundation, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, to state the obvious, that doesn’t seem like a very good idea. I don’t know who counsels him, but his people really
should have told him about this when he was setting up the trust. Not to sell myself short, but this kind of information is
not all that hard to get. When your grandfather is back on his feet, you might want to have a talk with him about finding
a better legal team.”