check the bottom.
Sawyer did so. "No rust spots," he said, then looked back at her.
"So somebody moved this cabinet to cover the rust spot. Why?"
"Because that rust spot came from another filing cabinet. A filing cabinet that isn't here anymore. Whoever took it vacuumed out as best they could the indentations the missing cabinet 'made on the rug but couldn't get the rust spot out. So they did the next best thing. They covered it up with another filing cabinet and hoped no one paid any attention to the gap."
"But you did," Sawyer said, more than a trace of admiration in his tone.
"I couldn't figure why a guy obviously as neat as our Mr. Page would have a gap in a wall of filing cabinets. Answer: Someone else did it for him."
"And that means someone is interested in Edward Page and what he had in that file cabinet. Which means we're heading in the right direction." Sawyer picked up the phone on Page's desk. In a succinct request he instructed Ray Jackson to find out everything he could about Edward Page. He hung up and looked over at Sidney. "Since his office didn't yield all that much, what do you say we pay a visit to the late Edward Page's humble abode."
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Page's residence was on the ground floor of a large turn-of-the-century home in Georgetown that had been transformed into a series of quaint apartments. The sleepy owner of the property had not questioned Sawyer's desire to view the premises. The man had read of Page's death and expressed dismay over it. Two detectives had been to the apartment and interviewed the landlord and several tenants.
The landlord had also received a phone call from Page's daughter in New York. The private investigator had been a model tenant. His hours were somewhat irregular, and he would sometimes be gone for days at a time, but the rent was always paid on the first of the month and he had been quiet and orderly. He had no close friends of whom the owner was aware.
Using a key provided by the owner, who lived on the premises, Sawyer unlocked the front door of the apartment and he and Sidney stepped inside; he hit the light switch and then shut the door behind them. He was hoping to at least get a base hit here, although a homer would be nice.
They had checked the security log before leaving Page's office.
The filing cabinet had been removed the day before by two guys in movers' uniforms bearing a legit-looking work order and the keys to the office door. Sawyer figured the moving company was certainly a phony and the contents of Page's filing cabinet, which probably held a treasure trove of interesting info, was probably no more than a pile of ash at the bottom of some incinerator by now.
The interior of Page's residence resembled the man's office in its simplicity and neatness. Sawyer and Sidney walked through the various rooms, surveying the basic layout of the apartment. A nice fireplace with a large Victorian-style mantel dominated the living room. Bookshelves filled one wall. Edward Page had been a voracious and eclectic reader, if his collection of books was any indication.
There were not, however, any journals or records or receipts that might have shown where Page had been lately or whom he might have been following other than Sidney and Jason Archer.
After methodically searching the living and dining rooms, Sawyer and Sidney moved on.
The kitchen and bathroom yielded nothing of interest. Sawyer tried the usual places like the tank behind the toilet and in the refrigerator, where he checked Coke cans and heads of lettuce to make certain they were real and not actually hiding places for clues as to why Ed Page had been murdered. Sidney entered the bedroom, where she undertook a thorough search, starting under the bed and mattress and ending with the closet. The few pieces of luggage there had no old airline tags. The wastebaskets were empty. She and Sawyer sat down on the bed and scanned the room. He looked over at the small stand of photographs on the side table. Edward Page and family, obviously in happier times.
Sidney picked up one of the photos. "A nice-looking family." Her thoughts were suddenly fixated on the photos residing in her house.
It seemed like a long time since that phrase had applied to her family.
She handed the photo over to Sawyer.
The wife was real good-looking, he thought, the son a miniature image of the old man. The daughter was very pretty. Red-headed with long coltish legs, she looked about fourteen in the photo. The date stamp showed it was taken five years ago. She must be a real heartbreaker now, Sawyer figured. And yet according to the landlord they were all in New York and Page was down here. Why?
As Sawyer started to put the photo of the Page family back, he felt a slight bulge on the photo's backing. He opened up the back.
Several photos about half the size of the framed one fell out. Sawyer picked them off the floor and studied them. They were all of the same person. A young man, mid-twenties. Good-looking, too handsome for Sawyer's taste--a pretty boy, was the FBI agent's first thought. The clothes were too fashionable, the hair too perfect. He thought he noted a trace of Ed Page along the jawline and around the deep brown eyes. Sawyer turned over all the photos. All except one were blank: "Stevie" was penned on the photo. Possibly Page's brother. If so, why were the photos hidden?
Sidney looked at him. "What do you think?"
He shrugged. "Sometimes I think this whole case is going to require more thinking than I can give it." Sawyer put all the photos back except the one with the name on the back. That one he put in his coat pocket. They looked around the room once more, then rose and left, locking the door securely behind them.
Sawyer walked Sidney to her house and then, out of an abundance of caution, conducted a search of the premises, making sure the house was empty and that every window and door was secure. "Day or night, you hear anything, you have a problem, you just want to talk, you call me. Understand?" Sidney nodded. "I've got two men outside. They can be in here in seconds." He walked to the front door. "I'm going to run some things down and I'll be back in the morning." He turned to look at her. "You going to be okay?"
"Yes." Sidney wrapped her arms around herself.
Sawyer sighed and leaned back against the door. "I hope one day I can deliver this case to you in one neat little ball, Sidney. I truly do."
"You... you still believe Jason is guilty, don't you? I guess I can't blame you. Everything... looks that way, I know." Her eyes searched Sawyer's troubled features. The big man sighed and looked away for a moment. When his eyes returned to her face, she saw a glimmer of something there.
"Let's just put it this way, Sidney," he said. "I'm starting to have some doubts."
She looked confused. "About Jason?"
"No, about everything else. I can promise you this: My top priority is finding your husband safe and sound. Then we can sort out everything else. Okay?"
She trembled slightly and then nodded at him. "Okay." When he turned to go, she touched his arm. "Thank you, Lee."
She watched Sawyer from the window. He walked over to the black sedan carrying the two FBI agents, looked back at the house, spotted her and waved. She made a feeble attempt at a wave back.
She was feeling rather guilty right now, for what she was about to do. She left the window, turned out all the lights, grabbed her gray blazer and purse and raced out the back door seconds before one of Sawyer's men appeared to guard that area. Slipping through the woods at the edge of the backyard, she came out onto the road on the next block. After five minutes of brisk walking she had reached a pay phone. The cab picked her up within ten minutes.
Thirty minutes later she slipped her key in the security slot of her office building and the heavy glass door clicked open. She raced to the elevator bank. A minute later Sidney stepped out onto her floor.
Inside the semidarkened space of Tyler, Stone, Sidney made her way quietly down the hallway. The library was at the end of the main hall on her floor. The double doors of frosted glass were open. Beyond this portal Sidney could plainly see shelf after shelf of books making up the firm's impressive law library. The area comprised a huge open s
pace with a series of cubicles and adjacent enclosed work areas. Behind one partition stood a row of computer terminals, which attorneys and paraleagles used for computerized legal research.
Sidney looked around the darkened interior of the library before venturing in. She heard no sound, saw no movement. Thankfully no junior associate was pulling an allnighter. Walls of windows on two adjacent sides of the library overlooked the city streets; however, the blinds were pulled all the way down. No one could see in.
Sidney sat down in front of one of the darkened terminals and risked turning on a small lamp that sat on the computer table next to the terminal. She took the disk out of her purse and laid it on the table. In a minute the computer was warmed up. She clicked on the necessary commands to start America Online and jerked slightly as the screechy modern kicked in. After the connection was made, she typed in her husband's user name and password, silently thanking him for making her memorize them when they had signed on a couple of years ago. She stared anxiously at the screen, her breathing shallow, her features taut and her stomach queasy as though she were a defendant awaiting a verdict from a jury. The computerized voice made her jump slightly, but it was what she was hoping for. "You have mail," it said.
Down the hallway two pairs of legs quietly made their way toward the library.
Sawyer looked up at Jackson. They were in the FBI conference room. "So what'd you find out on Mr. Page, Ray?"
Jackson sat down and opened his notebook. "Had a nice chat with NYPD. Page used to be a Cop up there. I also spoke with Page's ex-wife.
Got her out of bed, but you said it was important. She still lives in New York. She hasn't had much to do with him since their divorce. However, he was very close to his kids. I talked with his daughter. She's eighteen, in her freshman year at college, by the way, and now she has to bury her father."
"What she have to say?" Sawyer asked.
"A lot. Like her father was nervous the last couple weeks. Didn't want them to visit him. He had started to regularly carry a gun.
Hadn't done that in years. In fact he had taken a gun with him to New Orleans, Lee. It was found in a bag next to his body. Poor bastard never had a chance to use it."
"Why the move from New York down here, especially if his family stayed up there?"
Jackson nodded his head. "That's interesting. The wife wouldn't say one way or another. Just said the marriage was kaput and that was it. Page's daughter was of a different mind, though."
"She give you a reason?"
"Ed Page's younger brother also lived in New York. He committed suicide about five years ago. He was a diabetic. Gave himself a serious insulin overdose after a drinking hinge. Page was close to his kid brother. His daughter said her dad was never the same after that."
"So he just wanted to get away from the area?"
Jackson shook his head. "I gather from talking to his daughter that Ed Page was convinced his brother's death wasn't a suicide or an accident," said Jackson.
"He thought he was murdered?"
Jackson nodded.
"Why?"
"I've requested a copy of the file from NYPD. There might be some answers in there, although I spoke briefly with the detective who worked the case and he says all the evidence points to either suicide or an accident. The guy was drunk."
"If he did kill himself, anybody know why?"
Jackson sat back. "Steven Page was a diabetic, like I said, so his health wasn't the greatest in the world. According to Page's daughter, her uncle could never get his insulin regulated. Although he was only twenty-eight when he died, his internal organs were probably much older." Jackson stopped talking and looked down at his notes for a moment. "On top of that, Steven Page had very recently tested positive for HIV."
"Shit. That explains the drinking hinge," said Sawyer.
"Probably."
"And maybe the suicide."
"That's what NYPD thinks."
"How'd he contract it?"
Jackson shook his head. "No one knows. Officially, at least. I mean, the coroner's report wouldn't have been able to determine the origin. I asked the ex-wife. She wasn't any help. The daughter, however, tells me her uncle was gay. Not openly, but she was pretty sure about it and she thinks this is how he contracted HIV."
Sawyer rubbed his head and blew out a mouthful of air. "Is there some connection between the possible murder of a gay man in New York five years ago, Jason Archer ripping off his employer and a plane going down in Virginia?"
Jackson pulled at his lip. "Maybe, for some reason we don't know, Page knew that Archer didn't get on that plane."
Sawyer felt guilt for a moment. From his conversation with Sid-they--a conversation he hadn't shared with his partner--Sawyer knew that Page had been aware that Jason hadn't been on the plane.
"So Jason Archer disappears," he said, "and Page looks to pick up the trail through the wife."
"Makes sense as far as it goes. Hey, maybe it was Triton who hired Page to check on leaks, and he sniffed out Archer."
Sawyer shook his head. "Between their in-house staff and Frank Hardy's company, they have more than enough bodies to do the job."
A woman entered the room carrying a file. "Ray, this just came in over the fax from NYPD."
Jackson accepted the file. "Thanks, Jennie." After she had gone, Jackson scrutinized the file while Sawyer made a couple of calls.
"Steven Page?" Sawyer finally asked, pointing at the file.
"Yep. Real interesting stuff."
Sawyer poured a cup of coffee and sat down next to his partner.
"Steven Page was employed by Fidelity Mutual in Manhattan," said Jackson. "It's one of the biggest investment houses in the country.
He lived in a nice apartment building; place was filled with antiques, original oil paintings, closet full of Brooks Brothers; Jag in the garage down the street. He also had an extensive investment portfolio: stocks, bonds, mutual funds, money markets. Well over a million dollars' worth."
"Pretty good for a twenty-eight-year-old. But I guess those investment bankers make killings. You hear all the time about these punks making truckloads of money for doing who the hell knows what. Probably screwing the likes of you and me."
"Yeah, but Steven Page wasn't an investment banker. He was a financial analyst, a market watcher. Strictly salaried position; not big bucks either, according to this report."
Sawyer's brow furrowed. "So where did the investment portfolio come from? Embezzlement from Fidelity?"
Jackson shook his head. "NYPD checked that angle. There were no funds missing from Fidelity."
"So what did NYPD conclude?"
"I don't think NYPD ever concluded anything. Page was found alone in his apartment, door and windows locked from the inside.
And once the medical examiner's report came back as a probable suicide via insulin overdose, they pretty much lost interest. In case you didn't know, they've got a bit of a backlog on homicides in the Big Apple, Lee."
"Thanks for enlightening me, Ray, on New York City's corpse problem. So who inherited?"
Jackson sifted through the report. "Steven Page didn't leave a will. His parents were dead. He had no kids. His brother, Edward Page, as his only sibling, got everything."
Sawyer took a swallow of coffee. "That's interesting."
"But I don't think Ed Page popped his younger brother to fund his kids' college education. From what I could find out, he was as surprised as anyone else that his brother was a millionaire."
"Anything in the autopsy report catch your eye?"
Jackson picked out two pages from the file and handed them across to Sawyer. "As I said, a massive insulin overdose killed Steven Page. He injected himself in the thigh. It's a typical area of administration for diabetics. Other hypodermic entry sites around the thigh region showed it was his normal area of injection as well. Toxicology report showed a point-one-eight blood alcohol level. That didn't help his cause any when he took the overdose. Rigormortis indicated he had been dea
d about twelve hours when he was found; body temp was about eighty degrees. He was also in full rigor; that corroborates the time of death indicated by the body temperature and puts his check-out time at between three and four in the morning.
Postmortem lividity was fixed. Guy died right where they found him."
"Who did find him?"
"Landlady," said Jackson. "Probably wasn't a real pretty sight."
"Death rarely is. Any note left behind?"
Jackson shook his head.
"Page make any calls before he kicked the bucket?"
"The last phone call Steven Page made from his apartment was at seven-thirty that evening."
"Who'd he call?"
"His brother."
"Did the police talk to Ed Page?"
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