The Demise

by Diane Moody

  “I couldn’t say, sir. Haven’t seen him since he came through the lobby earlier.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  “Will do.”

  After the guard left, Matt rolled up his sleeves and took a seat behind the desk. A hearty yawn reminded him how poorly he’d slept the night before. Yesterday’s events kept rattling through his mind leaving him much too agitated to nod off. Between the multiple loose ends he’d need to tie up, a lumpy mattress, and a blaring television in the room next to his at the motel, he’d given up around four that morning. Just as well; he had a long day ahead of him, starting with a treasure hunt through Lanham’s computer.

  Apparently he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept well.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Smithe.”

  “Who let you into Peter’s office?”

  “The security guard downstairs. He’s been authorized by TBI to give me full access to the executive offices.”

  “Why was I not told?”

  “Beats me.” Matt was too tired to play a round of twenty questions with the office tyrant. “Look, I have a job to do. The sooner you let me do it, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.” Oops. Poor choice of words considering the follicly-challenged man standing in the doorway.

  Smithe narrowed his eyes. A subtle tic made him flinch before he turned and walked away.

  “And a nice day to you too,” Matt mumbled under his breath.

  Once he had his notes and his laptop open, he powered on Lanham’s computer. Donella Willet had given him Peter’s password only after insisting that Matt register her stern objection. Through the hour of questioning the day before, she had remained reserved, tight-lipped, and basically uncooperative. He might have flagged her as a person of interest had it not been for her surprising though guarded display of grief; a slight trembling of her lips and the occasional glistening of her eyes which were quickly dismissed as she assumed an air of indifference. He’d learned enough about body language to know she regarded these lapses in her demeanor as most unwelcome.

  He flipped through his notes to find his comments. More than a professional relationship with Peter? No question, but to what extent? This he would find out. Of course, he could save himself worlds of time if he took Julie Parker up on her offer of help, but he wasn’t about to go down that path. Her ridiculous litany of supposed qualifications were downright laughable. He shook his head and smiled, remembering the silly recitation of “research and experience” and the added bonus of knowing everyone in town. If she weren’t so darn cute, he would have sent her packing long before his peach cobbler arrived.

  He blinked, realizing he’d been daydreaming about the perky blonde, remembering her contagious smile and eyes the color of robin’s eggs. He ran his hand over his face and tried to shake it off. He needed to focus. Julie may be pretty—okay, beautiful; but he could already tell she was a pill, and right now he needed to avoid anything or anyone who might be a distraction.

  He typed in Peter’s password—Pierre. As he entered Lanham’s cyber world, he wondered what secrets the man had that might have led to his death. Matt kept all options open, choosing not to let the appearance of suicide compromise his investigation. If someone was behind Peter Lanham’s death, he would find out no matter how long it took.

  Sure, he wanted to show Berkowitz how good he was at his job. Maybe even show him up. But in the end, it was more about the familiar obsession to find the truth than some attempt at proving himself to someone else. For him, a mysterious death was like an insatiable itch that irritated him until a plausible answer was uncovered. Matt worked best when he worked alone, and nothing helped clear his mind like stepping into the space previously occupied by the victim. Seated in Lanham’s black leather chair behind the large mahogany desk, Matt shut out the world around him and tried to imagine what was on Peter’s mind the last time he’d sat in this exact spot.

  He browsed through the various programs on Lanham’s computer, jotting a note to himself now and then on anything that might require a second look. Finding hundreds of photographs in a variety of folders, he knew he’d need several hours to peruse all the pictures. A quick, cursory glance told him that Peter Lanham liked pretty women. Lots and lots of pretty women. He also spent time with celebrities and dignitaries.

  He realized the one person noticeably absent in the pictures was Peter’s wife, Patricia. Not surprising, after all he’d heard yesterday. He jotted himself a note to call on Mrs. Lanham that afternoon.

  Yesterday, he’d noticed the framed pictures of a large yacht on the walls of this office. Miss Willet had told him the sleek vessel Lanham named My Baby was one of his most prized possessions. Now, as Matt surfed the hundreds of photos stored on Lanham’s computer, he noted the yacht served as a common backdrop, along with a shocking number of voluptuous, bikini-clad young women, often posed on each side of a tanned and smiling Lanham. Matt made a note to find out where the boat was docked and how to gain access to it.

  In addition to the vast gallery of snapshots, Matt knew that Lanham’s emails would most likely provide a more personal look into the mind of the deceased. He was astonished to find the inbox filled with more than five thousand emails.

  Matt blew out a soft whistle. “Seriously? A man like you never bothered to clean out your inbox?”

  He also discovered an elaborate list of email folders stuffed with correspondence spanning almost two decades. Matt leaned back and stretched, weary at the thought of having to pour over twenty-something years of correspondence. Looking closer, he spotted a folder called Su-Jin. He assumed it was some kind of martial arts until he read a few of the emails and found that Su-Jin was a person. An Asian friend or business associate? Or is Su-Jin a woman? With your track record, she’s probably a geisha kept on retainer. Matt shook his head. How’d you keep them all straight, Casanova?

  “Good morning, Matt.”

  He looked up to find Julie at the door smiling at him. “Good morning, Miss Parker.”

  “Oh, please. Can’t we be a little less formal? After all, we had dinner together last night, remember?”

  He couldn’t help notice how her easy smile and playful teasing brightened the room. Matt stood and stretched. “I remember, though the implication of a date is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

  “Who said anything about a date?”

  He didn’t miss the sarcasm and smiled in spite of himself. “I don’t suppose a guy could get a fresh cup of coffee around here, could he?”

  “Follow me. I made a fresh pot that should be ready by now.”

  “Sounds great.” He grabbed his notepad, unwilling to let it out of his sight, then caught up with her. He caught a hint of a subtle fragrance in her wake and enjoyed it. He leaned slightly forward for another whiff when she suddenly turned and started walking backward to face him, putting a finger to her lips.

  “Donella’s attending to some of the arrangements on Mrs. Lanham’s behalf, so she won’t be in until later this afternoon. Most of the employees will probably stay home today since they were given the option. Those who come won’t be here until eight or eight-thirty.” She peeked into the break room, found it empty, then signaled for him to follow and lowered her voice. “Listen, Matt, we need to talk. But not here at the office. I made an important discovery last night that you need to know about.”

  His jaw clenched. “Julie, look, I told you last night that I—”

  “Good morning, Mr. Smithe,” she chimed as the vice president entered the room.

  “Just in time, Miss Parker.” He reached for a mug from the cabinet then filled it from the large urn. With his back still turned, he continued. “I’ve been here since six this morning, so I will be needing lots of fresh, strong coffee. Meaning, you’ll need to make an extra effort to make sure there’s plenty of fresh coffee at all times.” He stirred cream and s
ugar into his mug. “Don’t let me find this pot empty today. Understood?”

  “No problem.”

  He still hadn’t made eye contact with her or acknowledged Matt’s presence in the room. As he turned to leave, Smithe ran smack into Matt, splashing steaming hot coffee on both of them. A string of expletives exploded out of the veep’s mouth as his mug hit the tiled floor and shattered into pieces.

  “You stupid idiot!” Only then did he look up to see who he’d run into. “You! What are you—”

  “Hey, it was an accident. Calm down.” Matt set his notepad on a nearby table and yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down—”

  “Let it go!” Matt straightened as he took a step closing the gap between them. Smithe stared at him for only a second, then growled as he stomped to the sink and yanked handfuls of paper towels from the dispenser.

  “I’ll have you know this is an Armani shirt, and these are Armani slacks, both worth more than you make in a year’s salary. So you will pay for them if they’re ruined.” He continued patting down the stains then finally gave up. Suddenly, he was in Matt’s face with his eyes narrowed. “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.” The tic kicked in as Smithe continued to glare at him.

  Matt stared him down for a tense moment, then stepped aside. Smithe cursed under his breath and left the room. Matt looked at Julie, still frozen in place.

  “It’s okay. Really,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to hear all that.”

  “Are you all right?” She reached for some paper towels and dampened them for him. “Here, let me—”

  “That’s okay. I’ll go to the men’s room and see if I can get this cleaned up.” He looked up at her. “Mr. Smithe-with-an-E won’t be in there, will he?”

  “No, all the executive offices have their own restrooms.”

  “Good. I’ll be right back.”

  Julie wiped up the mess on the floor, carefully picking up pieces of the shattered coffee mug. After dropping them into the trash can, she spotted Matt’s notepad on the table. Without so much as a second thought, she flipped the cover open to the first page and took a peek.

  Computer password: Pierre

  Donella Willet – strictly professional relationship or something more?

  Computer photo files – playboy?

  Who are all these women? Compile a list.

  Office photos – celebrities & special dignitaries

  Yacht – “My Baby” – where is it docked?

  Email history – organize as to relevancy; who is Su-Jin?

  Patricia Lanham – visit her today.

  At the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, Julie closed the cover and distanced herself from the table.

  “What do you mean, you had an accident? You look like a kindergartner on the first day of school.”

  Berkowitz. I’d know that snark anywhere.

  She busied herself cleaning the counter then dried her hands, straining to hear their lowered voices.

  “Yeah, I know,” Matt answered. “My suitcase is in the car. I’ll go change in a minute. I wasn’t expecting you here today.”

  Realizing they weren’t coming into the break room, Julie edged closer to the door to hear what she could.

  “Yeah? Well, I didn’t plan to be here. But I couldn’t get in touch with my new partner who wasn’t answering his cell phone. Why do you suppose he would do that?”

  After a pause, Matt answered. “Oh. Sorry, I guess I left it in my car.”

  “Kid, didn’t they teach you anything at that Acme Detective School you went to? Don't let it happen again. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Got it.”

  “Couple of things have come up,” Berkowitz said, lowering his voice even more. Julie inched closer but stayed out of sight. “Coroner says Lanham died of a broken neck. Looks like he hit headfirst on that pavement. Cracked his skull on impact and popped that expensive neck of his.”

  “So you think it was a suicide?”

  “Did I say that? No. We know what caused his death, but at this point that’s all we know. What about you? Learn anything yesterday? Find a note? Anyone letting their guard down today?”

  “No note. I came in early to work over Lanham’s computer.”

  “I thought we sent that to the IT guys. What’s it still doing here?”

  “I decided to take a look at it first.”

  “Yeah? And why’s that?”

  “Call it intuition.”

  “I can think of all kinds of things to call it—”

  “Look, just give me the rest of the day. If I get in over my head, I’ll personally deliver it to the Nashville office.”

  “Then you better hope you find something.”

  “I’ve found some interesting files, a few things I want to look into. From everything I heard yesterday, nobody around here seems to think he would have jumped. He was the captain of the ship around here. A classic Type A choleric personality. Guys like that don’t usually jump.”

  “A cleric? From what I heard, he’s hardly the priest type. The man obviously liked his women.”

  Julie stifled a snicker at the faux pas.

  “Not cleric—choleric. It’s a personality type. It means he kept the upper hand in everything. Nothing got by him.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Look, I’ve got no time for this right now. We’ve had a break in a cold case I handled a couple of years ago. Fugitive located in Memphis. I’m on my way there now. Which means you’re gonna have to take over this investigation for the time being. It’s probably nothing but a suicide anyway. Even the Rockefeller types have a breaking point, know what I mean? Just try to wrap it up for me nice and neat with a bow on top. Got it?”

  “Sure. I’ll handle it.”

  “Just make sure you keep that cell phone on you at all times,” Berkowitz continued. “I don’t care if you’re in the can, you keep it on you. Oh, and one last thing. Whatever you do, keep your distance from the locals. Use ’em if you have to, learn what you can, but don’t go Mayberry on me. Small-town folks are weird. You can’t trust ‘em.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Consider yourself warned. I’m outta here.”

  Julie darted back to the sink before Matt returned to the break room. She turned on the faucet full force.

  “Oh—hi,” he said, startled. “I didn’t know you were still in here.”

  “What’s that?” she said over her shoulder. “Oh. Matt . . . sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. What did you say?”

  “Never mind. It wasn’t important.”

  She motioned toward the stains. “Not much improvement, I see.”

  “None at all. I’ve got clothes in my car, so I’ll go find something else to put on.”

  Julie smiled. “Do you always keep extra clothes with you?”

  “Not usually. But I decided to find a room here in Braxton instead of making the drive back and forth from Nashville every day. I haven’t had time to find an apartment yet, and the motel I’ve been staying in isn’t great. It just made sense to stay here instead. For now, anyway.”

  “Good idea. Think of all the time and gasoline you’ll save.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Listen, Matt, I want to apologize again for what happened with Mr. Smithe. No one should be treated like that. Least of all a guest.”

  Matt arched his brow. “Somehow I doubt Smithe considers me a guest. More of an intruder. He made that clear to me earlier this morning.”

  “Really?”

  “No big deal, but is he always such a pain?”

  “Always.” She filled a mug of coffee and handed it to him, then poured one for herself. “I’ve learned to keep a distance whenever possible. I refuse to engage him in his little tirades. He’s always reminded me of Stanley Tucci playing the part of Napoleon.

  He laughed. “Now that you mention it, I see a definite resemblance. Creepy, isn’t it?”

  “Creepy. Scary. Ridiculous. Frustrating—all that and more. Regardless
, he had no right to accost you like that. He was the one who ran into you, not the other way around.”

  “Doesn’t really matter. At least not to me.” Matt moved to the counter beside her then leaned against it. “Tell me something. How did he and Lanham get along?”

  She started to answer then stopped, taking a sip of coffee to stall for a moment. Mr. Smithe? A suspect? Can’t believe I didn’t think of him before. I should look into that. I should see if I can—

  “Julie?”

  “Yes? Oh, right. You asked if Mr. Smithe and Mr. Lanham got along. That’s a difficult question to answer. They seemed to get along for the most part. Although everyone knows Smithe is a real kiss-up when he wants to be.”

  “You’re kidding. Napoleon—a kiss-up?”

  “Oh yeah. Like a chameleon, especially whenever board members or corporate guests are around. As soon as they were gone, he’d be back to his usual hateful self, treating the rest of us like pond scum.”

  “Pond scum?” Matt chuckled. “That’s a new one.”

  “My Best Friend’s Wedding. Julia Roberts, confessing to Dermott Mulroney how she tried to break up his wedding. She calls herself pond scum. He’s very, very hurt, you see, so he tells her ‘No, lower.’ In utter humility, she answers, ‘I am the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.’ ‘Lower,’ he says. It goes downhill from there, but you get the drift.”

  Matt scratched his head, clueless. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. The world’s a movie. Everything reminds me of a scene in a movie or stage play.”

  “I suppose that comes with the territory. Being that you’re an actress.”

  “I’m an actor. The term is gender-neutral now. But yes, it definitely comes with the territory.”

  Julie followed Matt as they left the room. He lowered his voice. “So you never heard Smithe and Lanham argue or have a heated exchange?”

  “Actually, yes.” Her mind replayed some of the shouting matches coming from Lanham’s office.

  “Recently?”

  She thought for a moment. “Quite recently, in fact. Just a few days ago.” Julie visualized Smithe’s face, flushed scarlet as he slammed the door leaving Peter Lanham’s office. What had they fought about? Smithe was a jerk, but was he capable of murder?