According to Their Deeds

by Paul Robertson

  “Was Mr. White saying more wild things about him?”

  “Yes. That’s what it mainly was.” He stood. The wind rattled the window. “I think I’ll take Angelo with me.”

  “Sit up here,” Charles said.

  Angelo shrugged, and closed the back car door and opened the front. Even that door was quiet closing by his hand.

  “How do you do that?” Charles asked.

  “How to do what?”

  “How are you always so quiet?”

  “That’s not a how you do.”

  “Everything you do is silent.”

  “You just don’t be noisy.”

  For a while Charles was not noisy. Then he said, “I’m trying to decide if that’s not an answer or if it is.”

  Angelo said nothing else, and in the car it was quiet.

  “That building is it,” Angelo said, pointing. Charles pushed through the other cars into the left lane and turned into the parking lot. He parked at the front door. The first floor was painted cinder block. Above and to the side was sheet metal. The sign said Tyson Estate Agents.

  “Hello?” Charles looked through the front room of two metal desks and cabinets.

  “Just a minute,” a voice said from a hall. Charles waited. Angelo stood.

  A man in canvas work pants and a flannel shirt sauntered in. He frowned thoughtfully at Angelo.

  “There’s no package. Really.”

  Charles frowned thoughtfully back. “There is,” he said. “But actually a different package. I wonder if I could speak to the lady who works here?”

  “Jane! The guy’s back again for that package.”

  A moment later, she entered. She wasn’t in a gray suit as he’d seen her before, but she was obviously in charge, and obviously very blond.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello,” Charles said. “You don’t remember me, but I’ve seen you before.”

  “Oh? Where?” She sat at a desk.

  “About two weeks ago. My name is Charles Beale, and I was at the auction of Derek Bastien’s estate.”

  The woman’s expression changed to annoyance. “Are you police?”

  “No. I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong.”

  “I know I haven’t. What do you want?”

  “I want to see the desk you bought.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry. I can’t let you into someone else’s room.”

  “That’s fine. I just wanted to make sure first that it was here. We’ll have a key here in a few minutes. May I use your telephone?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He dialed. “John Borchard, please.” Then after many waits, he said, “Would you please get a message to him? Tell him Charles Beale is calling from Tyson Estate Agents, and it is extremely important. I’ll wait.”

  It wasn’t a very long wait.

  “Charles. This is John.”

  “I’m very sorry to interrupt you, but we need to talk, urgently. Could you come meet me here?”

  There was a last wait, different from the ones before because of the heavy breathing at the other end.

  “You are at the warehouse?” John said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  The front door opened.

  Charles was sitting, waiting, and Angelo was leaning against the wall beside him.

  “Mr. Borchard. Thank you for coming.”

  John Borchard’s face had room for many emotions. Anger was in his jaw, annoyance in the set of his mouth, and menace over the expanse of his forehead. Deep in his eyes there was worry.

  “Charles,” he said, and all the emotions were in his voice as well. “Well. Why did you come here? Why didn’t you just call me? We could have talked without the dramatic effects.”

  “I thought it would help us both to be truthful.”

  “Perhaps. And why now?”

  “Patrick White came to see me this morning. And I had another reason for coming here, John. I want to see the desk.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “I do want to.”

  At first, annoyance was winning. But not for long.

  “All right.”

  Blond Jane had only watched so far, but now she stood to lead the way to the hall and back, past locked metal doors in whitewashed walls to a door like all the others.

  John Borchard unlocked it.

  “Go ahead.”

  Jane retreated. Charles entered with the quiet shadow of Angelo close. John came in last.

  The room was large, cinder block, cement, gray and empty, almost. Only the desk was in it, in the center, its rich dark wood and ornament in blunt tension with its prison. Its back panels had been roughly removed and leaned against it.

  An intricate mechanism enclosed the exposed back of the drawers on one side.

  Charles moved to the front of the desk and respectfully pushed the two left drawers in an inch, then pulled the lower drawer out. John Borchard watched. The box, no longer hidden, obeyed and came out with the drawer.

  “That would have been helpful to know,” John Borchard said. Annoyance was back, with real anger just beside it. “I suppose Derek showed you how it worked?” And then threat, a new expression not yet seen, appeared. “There is a great deal you need to explain to me, Charles.”

  But Charles was looking at the wooden box. It matched the desk perfectly. The stain was the same, the wood was the same, and even the joints were the same grooves and slots as the antique drawer. The only difference was that it wasn’t as worn as the antique.

  “It’s beautiful work,” Charles said. The box was empty.

  “Yes, it is all very unfortunate.”

  “Yes, very. Do you know who made it?”

  “The drawer? No.”

  “The desk itself,” Charles said.

  “No.”

  Charles moved slowly around it, stooping and peering. “It doesn’t say.” He felt the smoothness of the wood and the tight joining of the panels. Then he stood. “Now I’d like to see the papers.”

  “I won’t allow that, Charles. Absolutely not.”

  “You’ll need to, John. We’re going to talk through this, all of it. You have as much to explain as I do.”

  His lower lip was quivering, and whatever emotion he was trying to show was incomplete without that part under control.

  “They’re at my house.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  John Borchard held the door for Charles, and then locked it. Angelo barely got out before it closed; John had ignored him completely.

  Charles twisted through the tangles of suburban roads, John Borchard’s heavy silver Cadillac guiding him.

  “You are making that man mad,” Angelo said.

  “Yes. It’s unavoidable.”

  “That man, you should be careful with him. Does he have friends?”

  “You mean his gang? No, there won’t be anyone at his house. I know you wouldn’t follow someone into his base like this, but I think he is a man who works on his own.”

  Angelo nodded. “I think he is. You are going into his house?”

  “I expect so.”

  “I will not go in.”

  “That’s probably best. He’ll be more willing to talk with just me alone. He’s in a difficult position and he needs my help, Angelo. I want to get information from him, but even more, I want to help him.”

  Finally they came to a driveway on a very new street of very large houses. Where Derek’s house had been a painting, these were billboards. The landscaping was machined and the architecture generated.

  John Borchard stood waiting in the driveway.

  “Here we are,” he said as Charles stepped from his car. “My wife is away for the morning.”

  “It’s a very nice neighborhood, John.”

  “Please come in.”

  Angelo stayed in the front seat. John led Charles through the garage, not the front door, into an extensive k
itchen of hard, polished surfaces, and through a dining room of designed colors and shapes, and a hallway of nothing comfortable, and to an office of deep and rich pretense, with nothing anywhere softened or wizened by any age.

  “Please sit down.”

  Charles sat in a chair as plush as those in the Justice Department office. A clock ticked. Charles folded his hands.

  “I am very disturbed,” John Borchard said from behind his desk. Whether he wasn’t trying, or the novelty had worn off, his face seemed less expressive. It was merely stern. “Charles, I accepted you for who you said you were and what you said you were doing. You gave no indication that you were anything but a friend of Derek’s, simply looking at his life. But now it is obvious that you were misleading me.”

  “I apologize,” Charles said. “However. Caution has been necessary, and John, I don’t believe you were simply accepting me as Derek’s friend. You assumed much more than that.”

  “And so I was correct. Then let’s start over.” John forced a forced smile. “And let’s start with Derek’s desk. How did you know about it?”

  “I really didn’t know anything about it at the time of the auction two weeks ago. Of course, everyone saw the bidding. The desk was worth over a hundred thousand dollars to two different people.”

  “But Derek had showed you the drawer?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you know about it?”

  “That came later, and I’m under an obligation to not discuss it. But I did find out about the drawer, and about what it might have contained.”

  “And what do you think it might have contained?” John asked.

  “I think caution is still in order,” Charles said. “Instead, I’ll mention Patrick White.”

  “I’ve warned you already to not listen to him.”

  “I know that he is mistaken about you, John. But someone threatened him and then carried out their threat. Someone.”

  “Apparently,” John said.

  “I believe it was Derek Bastien.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll just say I’ve gotten to know Derek very well since he died. But that is what I think Derek kept in his desk.”

  “Evidence against Patrick White?”

  “More than just Mr. White. And, John, I think you must have known what he was doing.”

  “What makes you think that, Charles?”

  “Because you paid a hundred and five thousand dollars to get his desk.”

  John Borchard’s face was out of control for a moment with a bewildering array of worries, angers and even bewilderments.

  “But how did you know that I did? You’re talking in circles.”

  “I guessed. At least two people knew about the drawer, to bid so high for it. Who else would it have been? You, or Karen Liu, or Patrick White. Possibly others. Mr. White didn’t suspect Derek at all, and I don’t believe Karen Liu did either. But Derek worked for you, and his interests in blackmail coincided very closely with yours. It seemed reasonable that you would know what he was doing. And not many people would have been close enough to him to specifically know about the drawer.”

  “But you were still guessing.”

  “I was guessing. I guessed that someone would get a list of agents from the auction house, which turned out to be true. Was that how you found Jane?”

  “That isn’t important.”

  “It seemed in character, though. So when I found her, I had a chance to try out my guess. If you hadn’t responded the way you did, I would have tried Karen Liu next. Besides that, your questions about Derek’s books were rather transparent.”

  “Yes, his books.” John was back on firmer ground. “My questions were transparent. You could have answered me plainly.”

  “Why were you interested in his books?” Charles said.

  This time, the expressions progressed through concentration, indecision, calculation, and finally firm resolution. John settled deep into his chair’s padding. The final display of eyebrows, chin and lips was camaraderie and confiding.

  “All right, Charles. I see that we need to work cooperatively here. I think we’re working toward the same goal, and we’ll need each other’s help to get there.” He leaned forward for a more intimate discussion. “Yes, I was aware of Derek’s activities, but only slightly. I did see his drawer once and I knew what he had in it. I didn’t ask for specifics. I only knew that he had some leverage over Karen Liu.”

  “So, it was unexpected when Patrick White began accusing you of blackmail?”

  “Absolutely. I hadn’t known that Derek also had incriminating evidence about him. It didn’t take me long to realize what had happened, though. Derek engineered his downfall and made him think it had been me who did it.”

  “And that made it imperative for you to get the rest of his papers,” Charles said.

  “Exactly. Absolutely. I had to know what other schemes he had going.”

  “Couldn’t you have gone to the police?”

  “No. Not until I knew myself what was in the papers.”

  “And what was?” Charles asked.

  “Too much.” John grimaced. “And not enough. There were files on more people than I would have imagined, but the specific ones I was looking for were missing. Charles, my guess is that you have the papers that I don’t.”

  Charles nodded. “I do have some papers.”

  “They were in one of the books?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I was right,” John said. “And that’s how you became involved. Well, Charles, I would like to see them.”

  “You should, John. And I’d like to see the papers you have.”

  Their solidarity was shaken. John frowned.

  “That would worry me,” he said. “The papers concern a number of people. I’m sure they wouldn’t want you to see them.”

  “They will never know that I have.”

  “It makes me wonder how you will use the information in them.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Then why even look, Charles? It would be better if you didn’t. You don’t know most of them. They are his colleagues at work and people he knew socially. I have compelling reason to know, because I need to understand what damage has been done, and how it can be repaired. That’s my responsibility as Derek’s superior in the Department. I don’t understand why you need to see them.”

  “John, it isn’t that I want to. I also have my own compelling reason, but I can’t tell you what it is.”

  John was not pleased. “A compelling reason?”

  “I can’t cooperate further until I’ve seen them.”

  John Borchard would have been a poor poker player. It was obvious he was going to fold, even as he tried to bluff.

  “Tell me what you’re looking for. I can tell you if you’d find it.”

  “I don’t know. I have to look for myself.”

  “Oh, very well!” For the moment, they were not friends. “I’ll ask you to excuse me for a moment.”

  “Of course.” Charles stood to leave. “I’m sorry, John. I really don’t want to see them. But I have to.” He stepped outside.

  The brief passage of the hall earlier had been enough to appreciate it. Now he had a much longer opportunity as three minutes passed. It was surprising how poor the Borchards’ taste was; everything was expensive, but nothing was valuable. There was no feel to any of the house. The only consistency to any of the furniture was how soft the seats were, and the severe hardness of everything else.

  The door opened.

  “Please, come in.”

  A stack of folders was on the desk, about two inches high.

  “It isn’t as many as it looks,” John said. “Each one is in its own folder. But there are still forty-six in all.”

  The folders were unmarked. Charles took the first and set it down off the stack onto the desk’s surface. The wood was dark and heavily grained. He pushed a brass penholder out of the way.

  Then he glanced up at a curtained window
behind the desk chair.

  “Need more light?” John said. “I sometimes do.” He opened the curtains.

  Charles looked out into the backyard. The black windows of the house behind them looked directly down and in.

  Charles turned back to the folder. It held only a single page: a hotel bill from a Las Vegas resort, with a name and date.

  “Nothing illegal,” John Borchard said. “That is my peer, the other Deputy Assistant A.G. for Legislative Affairs. But he wouldn’t want it known that he frequents casinos. He’s quite a straight arrow.”

  Charles opened the next folder.

  “And that is illegal,” John said.

  “I don’t know what it is. A prescription?”

  “For a steroid. That is our secretary. Her son is a college football player.”

  He opened the third folder. It was a two-thousand-dollar car repair bill.

  “That is our personnel manager’s wife. I casually asked him if he’d had any automobile problems lately, and he hadn’t.”

  “So she wrecked her car and hid it from her husband. That’s hardly blackmail material.”

  “Most of them aren’t. And there isn’t much need to blackmail your own secretary.”

  Charles opened another folder.

  “Oh, dear!” The page had a dozen credit card charges from a hamburger restaurant.

  “I didn’t know that name,” John said. “So I looked it up. He is the owner of a vegetarian restaurant that Derek frequented.”

  “That’s absurd,” Charles said.

  “That is probably the most so. It’s quite a collection. Some are illegal, some immoral.”

  “And some merely fattening.” Charles sighed. “What a strange collection.”

  “The papers?”

  “The people. You were right, John. He did collect people. Is this all the folders?” Charles asked.

  “That’s all of them.”

  “I need to look at each one.”

  “Then go ahead.”

  One by one he looked at the single pages, some for only a few seconds, some longer. John was silent, and the clock ticked. Fifteen minutes later he closed the last folder.

  “Well,” he said.

  “Not a pretty picture,” John said.

  “Not at all. Of course, I don’t know what many of them mean.”

  “Many of them, I did know. Most of the others I’ve found out what they mean. There are five that are still unclear.”