Fifth ring.
“Give me that.” The detective snatched the evidence bag from the table and exhumed the cell phone in one fluid motion. He was desperate to answer before the caller went into voice mail.
“Hello.” Murphy spoke in a whisper, calm and under control. He reined back the clipped hints of an Irish brogue that Torres found so lovely. JFK or Charles Manson—his phone voice could have belonged to anybody.
The caller spoke.
Murphy winked at Torres. “Who’s calling?”
He frowned, as though surprised by a pushback response.
“Father Rossi isn’t available.”
Torres mouthed the word “speakerphone.”
Murphy wrinkled his brow and shook his head no at her.
His attention returned to the caller. “Then you’ll be holding a long time, pal. This is Detective Murphy. We have your number. We have your location. Maybe you should answer my questions.”
Torres rolled her eyes. She assumed the caller would hang up.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Murphy screwed up his face, making Torres wonder what the caller had said.
CHAPTER TEN
FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA, AND MPDC FIRST DISTRICT SUBSTATION
“No joke. Everybody calls me Biscuit. Why are you answering this phone?”
“I’m investigating a crime. Why are you calling Father Rossi?”
Murphy’s words rocked the lawyer. Except for the occasional problem with a tenant, Biscuit seldom spoke with Fayetteville police. And contact with D.C. authorities was out of the question. “Is he okay?”
“Are you a friend?”
“I’m a lawyer,” replied Biscuit. “What’s this about?”
“I’ll call you from a landline.”
Biscuit hung up and considered his chaotic desk. The phone was vying for space with legal debris and junk-food wrappings. “What the hell.” He slapped his meaty palm on the tabletop.
Ten seconds later, Murphy and Torres connected with Fayetteville. “This is Detective Murphy. Can you hear me okay?”
“Fine. Is anybody else on this call?” Biscuit recognized the tinny sound of a speakerphone. In his profession, there were innumerable horror stories about unidentified listeners.
“Agent Torres from the FBI.”
“Good morning, Mr. Hughes.” She tried to sound cordial. She might need his help later.
The surprises kept coming. Biscuit had never expected to connect with the police, let alone the FBI. “I take it there’s a problem.”
“Father Rossi is the victim of a homicide,” answered Torres. “Why are you calling?”
“To discuss the Catholic Fund.” The lawyer sipped a supersized Coke.
“How was Father Rossi involved with them?” For the moment, Murphy was concealing his lack of knowledge. He knew nothing about the Catholic Fund.
Torres scribbled on her notepad.
“Sacred Heart Parish and the Catholic Fund,” drawled Biscuit, “share the same address.”
The Southerner’s slow speech irritated Murphy. He rolled his index finger in circles, trying to speed Biscuit’s answers. “Why do you care?”
Torres remained silent. Murphy’s questions were fine. And she’d rather eat nails than disclose anything to some attorney from Fayetteville, North Carolina. Lawyers were all the same. They’d turn her investigation into the three-ring circus known as ABC, NBC, and CBS. She had seen the media spoil too many cases before—both in private practice and with the FBI.
“I represent a subdivision outside Fayetteville—”
“North Carolina,” Murphy interrupted, finishing the sentence, still rolling his finger.
Biscuit decided the cop was boorish. “For the most part, my clients are military folk. And right now they’re pissed.”
“Why’s that?” pressed Murphy.
“Because an adult superstore named Highly Intimate Pleasures is opening in their backyard. Because real estate prices will tank when truckers stop for burgers and blue movies. Because my clients are NCOs. It’s all they can do to scrape together a down payment for their homes. Soldiers put their lives on the line every day, and they sure as hell don’t need twenty thousand square feet of peep shows dragging down property values.”
“Noncommissioned officers?” asked Torres. She knew what “NCO” meant. She asked only to curry Biscuit’s favor. She already smelled problems around the corner.
“Right.”
Biscuit’s outburst surprised Murphy. The force, the passion, made him think there was more to the story. “Just real estate—that’s the only connection between Sacred Heart and your adult superstore.”
“It’s not mine.”
“You know what I mean.”
“The Catholic Fund owns Highly Intimate Pleasures. I want to know if Sacred Heart’s passing a collection plate so they can sell vibrators in my neck of the woods.”
Annoyed, Torres stopped writing. “Not helpful, Mr. Hughes.”
“Neither are perverts.”
“Do any of your clients know the victim?”
The big lawyer stopped to consider Murphy’s question. “They’re not suspects, are they?”
“I’ve got a badge, a dead body, and a motive. What do you think, Counselor?”
“My clients live in North Carolina. They learned about the Catholic Fund last Sunday.”
“I need their names.”
“Why?”
“Father Rossi died two days later.”
“You should focus on the Catholic Fund.” The unexpected turn in the conversation annoyed Biscuit. His lather was growing, his drawl dissipating, his words coming faster and faster.
“Leave the investigation to us.” Murphy was just as angry. This lawyer bugged him.
“Maybe I should bring in the press. Reporters make great sleuths. And they’ll have a field day with this one.”
Biscuit had shut down Cavener with help from the media. He knew journalists would leverage his time and make the cops play defense. He’d dial them in a heartbeat.
“What do you mean ‘field day’?” asked Torres.
“Want me to spell out the headlines?”
“Go ahead.” Her eyes narrowed.
“‘Forget Bingo. Vatican Sanctions Porn to Raise Money.’ That’s catchy, right?”
Torres had heard enough. Her investigation could not afford the publicity. Nor did she welcome another pubic relations disaster for the Church. Her Catholic brethren always got a bum rap, even when they weren’t to blame.
In the old days, Attorney Torres would have jumped down Biscuit’s throat. That’s how it was growing up in a big family. Sometimes, she uncorked just to be heard.
At that moment, her FBI training took over. And it was Agent Torres who stayed calm, no matter how intense. “I doubt the press is in your clients’ best interests.”
“A bunch of sergeants are depending on me. I don’t care who we annoy.”
“Suit yourself,” Torres replied, her tone mocking and indifferent. “But you’re interfering with a federal investigation. My dad was one of those sergeants you keep describing. And I know NCOs don’t have time to answer questions when the Federal Bureau of Investigation comes knocking. We burn through hours and mess with day jobs. It could take forever to interview any one of those soldiers. I really don’t want the press involved. We clear?”
Murphy raised his eyebrows.
“The subdivision knows about the Catholic Fund,” said Biscuit. “The story will find its way to the press. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Then I hold you responsible.” Torres knew her boss would go ballistic if their investigation attracted news coverage. “Maybe it’s time you reestablish your chain of command.”
“I don’t get the hard-ass threats.” Biscuit was crushing the receiver with his grip, forgetting himself. “Who are you to hold soldiers hostage?”
“I’m doing my job. And if you want to protect your clients, I suggest you stick to zoning rather than ey
ewitness news.”
“That may be impossible.”
“I can refer you to a decent lawyer who knows how to get the job done.”
“You have my number.” Biscuit clicked off.
Time for hardball. Torres decided to call Biscuit later and apply the pressure. A phone call here. A phone call there. She’d make him think twice about hanging up on the FBI.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE LAW OFFICES OF YOUNG AND SCRANTOM
Huitt Young was Palmer’s lawyer and best friend. He was slender, 140 pounds in his British wingtips. He was short, no more than five foot seven. His shock of silver hair, swept back high and tight, added a good inch. Maybe two. He was kinetic. Huitt evoked roughly the same reaction from a room as a Jack Russell terrier. He possessed the breed’s preternatural ability to stir things up. People were wary. And sometimes, true to his profession and canine equivalent, he left messes behind.
Right now, I felt like one of them.
JoJo, Claire, and I had arrived right on time at 10:00 A.M. Huitt met us in the lobby.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “Grove, you mind waiting here while I discuss family specifics?”
“No prob.”
That was ninety minutes ago.
The first time I phoned my office, Zola reported, “The market’s melting up.”
“Melting up” is the latest jargon from finance. Zola meant that buyers had returned. They were sending stocks sharply higher, 3 and 4 percent in most cases.
A half-dozen calls later, Zola grew tired of my interruptions. So our assistant, Chloe, a single mom who calls it like it is, took over and put me in the adult equivalent of time-out. “We’ll let you know if anything happens.”
The thing about law offices is they don’t keep much reading material in their lobbies. Dentists stock everything from People to Sports Illustrated for their patients. And my barbershop offers the latest on cars, diets, and cycling, not to mention PG-13 porn like Maxim. But there was only one copy of The Wall Street Journal in the venerable offices of Young and Scrantom. I had read it front to back fifteen minutes after arrival.
My BlackBerry was running low on juice. I was restless and irritated. I wondered what was taking so long and why I had been summoned in the first place.
What the hell am I doing here?
The last forty-eight hours were a blur. I wore black sunglasses during Palmer’s funeral and well into the night, even though the camouflage wasn’t necessary. Seeing old friends dulled my pain. Classmates from Bishop England came out in droves to pay their respects to Palmer Kincaid. These were people I had not seen for years. And the funeral was, forgive me here, a reunion of sorts.
Those same friends exacerbated Claire’s grief. Don’t get me wrong. She had a good cry with many of them. But she never left my side yesterday. And it was my arm Claire clutched for support, even though we had not seen each other for years.
Weird if you ask me.
Maybe the more familiar faces reminded Claire that Palmer was gone. There would be a void in the life that had once been so consistent. Or maybe Palmer’s advice prompted her to stay close.
“You’re his thousandth man.”
At 11:45 A.M. Huitt interrupted my reverie. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t expect us to take so long.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Nothing the family can’t work out.”
Danger, Will Robinson.
Inside the conference room, I studied JoJo and Claire for clues. The two women looked about how you’d expect—wrung out from the ordeal.
Huitt launched right into business. “For the sake of clarity, Grove, all numbers are after tax. Best as we can figure, that is.”
“Understood.” Huitt was being modest. He was a fine lawyer.
“Palmer left one hundred and fifty million to the Palmetto Foundation.”
“You’re kidding.”
I couldn’t help the outburst. Palmer’s financial assets totaled about $200 million. Three-quarters was going to charity, a staggering gift by any measure. Instinctively, I checked JoJo and Claire. Both were smiling. Both were crying, tears of joy running down their cheeks.
“Not kidding,” Huitt replied. “And that’s why you’re here.”
Growing up in the South makes you diplomatic. You learn how to ask delicate questions at an early age. Me—I apologize all over myself. I’m formal, a bit awkward. And then I rip right into the rough stuff. “It’s none of my business. And forgive me for asking. But that leaves fifty million give or take?”
Huitt looked at the two women. He was the consummate professional, a lawyer asking his clients for permission to disclose sensitive information.
“Go ahead,” urged JoJo.
Her engagement ring—a three-carat emerald-cut diamond surrounded by baguettes around the band—glinted in the light. I guessed seven figures from Harry Winston. Annie teases me about fashion naïveté. But I know my stores of value, gems included. It comes with the job.
Claire nodded okay and pushed the bangs from her face.
“Fifty million in financial assets,” Huitt said. “Plus the houses.”
No way!
My lips parted for a moment. “That’s after tax?”
He noted my reaction. “That’s what I said. Why the surprise?”
Time for diplomacy.
Fifty million dollars before tax made sense. Fifty million dollars after tax did not, unless Claire was cut out of the will. Estate transfers between spouses, Palmer to JoJo, are tax-free. That’s just the law.
But estate transfers from a parent to a child are fully taxable. If Palmer left any money or real estate to Claire, the remaining cash and financial assets would have been less than $50 million after all the taxes were paid.
Sitting before the two Kincaids, I chose my words carefully. “The balance seems large given what I know about the family.”
“Do you know about Palmer’s life insurance?”
“No. But I get it now.”
Wealthy individuals often buy life insurance policies to pay their estate taxes. It was possible, I now realized, that Palmer had left assets to Claire. I was not about to apologize, though, and ask what she had inherited. Diplomacy is one thing. Bad taste is another. Better to let the details bubble up naturally.
“Why am I here, Huitt?”
“Palmer requested something from you.”
“Anything.”
“He asked you to serve on the Palmetto Foundation’s board.”
Shivers of pride danced up my spine. Pins and needles, the same feeling as a leg falling asleep, crisscrossed my forehead. It’s a big deal in my biz, an honor really, to join a philanthropic board. Especially one with $150 million in assets. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about yes?” JoJo’s face glowed. Her skin tones were as golden as the light beaming through the windows.
Claire suddenly looked fresh. For a moment, all four of us forgot last week.
Caution being what it is, I reverted to time-tested sales lingo for fishing out details. “Tell me more.”
“The board membership is a volunteer position,” explained Huitt.
“Of course.”
“The foundation will reimburse your expenses. And as a member of the board, you will vote whether to approve or reject the charitable projects.”
“Including those proposed and funded by donors outside the Kincaid family?”
“Absolutely.” Huitt spoke in confident tones, his voice raspy from years of dispensing advice. “JoJo and Claire are your co-trustees. All three of you have one vote each, which makes you the swing vote outside the family.”
“I assume it’s okay to attend meetings over the phone?”
“Absolutely.”
“How soon do you need to know?”
“Monday,” Huitt said. “Otherwise, I find alternates.”
“We need you,” urged JoJo.
“Will you do it?” asked Claire.
“I need t
o ask SKC.”
“Why’s that?” Claire pushed the bangs from her face again.
“Company policy. I need approval for board affiliations. Especially one that involves money.”
“You’re not being paid,” objected JoJo.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m required to disclose outside activities.”
“Sounds like Big Brother.” Claire pronounced “brother” with three syllables.
“That’s Wall Street.”
“Let me know Monday.” Huitt stood to leave. “And call me if you have questions.”
“I’m flattered.”
Talk about diplomacy. My statement was true enough. Palmer’s invitation to join the board was an honor. But after my initial groundswell of enthusiasm, the old Wall Street cynicism took over.
I had seen this movie before.
The stronger the patriarch and the more sudden the death, the greater the chaos that ensues. I still had no idea what Palmer had left to JoJo, versus what he had left to Claire. If the two ever disagreed, if there was any hidden jealousy, I could be caught in their crossfire.
Maybe that was the price of being Palmer’s thousandth man.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HIGHLY INTIMATE PLEASURES
Biscuit punched off his cell phone. He turned into the parking lot, where the tarmac was crisp, black, and freshly paved. Even though it was late September, waves of heat shimmered off the pavement. Biscuit did not get out. Not at first. Instead, he stewed inside his black Hummer—engine running, air conditioner blasting, Southern sun bearing down two degrees hotter than hell.
He found the river birch surprising. So many of these shade trees had been planted around the lot. They were surrounded by flowering shrubs and at least three different ground covers—variegated lilyturf, cotoneaster, and bishop’s weed. The attention to landscaping was not what he expected outside an adult superstore. The grounds resembled a city park.
For a long while, Biscuit considered Father Michael Rossi. He wondered why the FBI was involved and whether the priest’s death was more than a coincidence. To some extent, he felt guilty. Biscuit had expected to harangue the good father about Highly Intimate Pleasures, to grill him six ways to Sunday. Only now, a Fayetteville inquisition was impossible.
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