A Killer's Kiss

by William Lashner

  “What can I do for you, Victor?” said Clarence Swift, maintaining the pose of a suspicious prelate.

  “I just have some questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m quite busy.”

  “Working on Julia’s case?”

  “There is much to be done.”

  “Oh, Clarence, I’m sure you have the situation well in hand.”

  “Thank you for your confidence. But still, this is no time for letting up. I need to be sure that Julia’s interests are completely taken care of. There is a surfeit of work yet to do, and your rejecting my caution and continuing to impose your presence on her has just amplified my difficulties. So if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Youngblood, LP.”

  Clarence blinked.

  “You set it up,” I said.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “I’m sure you do, Clarence. Youngblood was a limited partnership created to launder ill-gotten gains through Wren Denniston’s investment company. There were two partners. One was Gregor Trocek, a shady business associate of Wren’s. The other was an old friend of Wren’s from their school days. You knew all of Wren’s old friends, surely.”

  “Not all,” said Clarence. “I didn’t go to school with Wren. He attended Germantown Academy, I went to public school.”

  “That must have rankled,” I said.

  “Public school was good enough for a modest boy of modest means like me.”

  “It was Gregor’s money that financed the partnership—cash, actually—but the money was earned through questionable means and no taxes had been paid, so he needed a way to turn the cash into an investment. Which is where the old friend came in. I’m talking, of course, about Miles Cave, the man you told me you never heard of. And when it came time to finalize the agreement, a document was required, and Wren came to you to draft it up, and you did.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Victor.”

  “I read the thing, every word. It’s full of useless Latin and tortured legal phrases. The agreement humbly wrings its own hands even as it carefully creates a vehicle for illegal money laundering. It’s got your fingerprints all over it.”

  “You’re making this up. It’s not possible to tell.”

  “Then let’s ask the FBI what they think.”

  “Why would they care?”

  “I could give you one point seven million reasons.”

  “You’re guessing,” he said, backing up now as his voice rose higher. “It’s not true. You’re lying.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I know your type,” he hissed. “Willing to make up anything to put the likes of me down. But I deserve more than the lies of a private-school brat. Where did you go, Victor? Penn Charter? The Haverford School? In which lofty tower did you learn to make up stories about the rest of us?”

  “I went to public school myself.”

  “In the suburbs, I’d bet.”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “That hardly counts.”

  “Still, you wrote it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  He pulled his outsize handkerchief from his jacket pocket, wiped the shine off his forehead. As he flicked the handkerchief back into the pocket, he collapsed loudly onto the high stool before the slanted writing desk.

  Just then a voice poured through the doorway. “Anything I can do for you, Mr. Swift?” called in the secretary.

  “No, Edna, we are fine, thank you.”

  Swift stared at me for a moment with weary resignation in his eyes. Then he propped an elbow on the writing desk and clasped his hands together.

  “You are correct, Victor. Yes, I drafted the agreement. I am embarrassed to have lied, but Wren asked me to tell no one of my involvement, and so I was merely trying to accede to the request of the dear departed. But you found me out fair and square. I should have known that a poor liar like me would be found out by someone as clever as you. Is that what you came for, to humiliate me?”

  “Nah, that’s just a bonus. What I’ve really come for is Miles Cave.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m looking for him.”

  “There seems to be an army looking for him.”

  “But I’m going to have your help.”

  “Why would I help you?”

  “Because if I can find him, the police will have a sweet suspect to nail Wren’s murder on. Which would be a great benefit to Julia.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “And we both are doing all we can for poor Julia.”

  “Yes, we are.” He stared at me for a moment and then dropped his chin. “He is a frightening man, Victor.”

  “Then the sooner I find him, the better for everyone.”

  “I’ve never met him, of course. And so everything I know is secondhand, from Wren.”

  “Go on.”

  “Wren said he was tall, good-looking, a ne’er-do-well. He drove a convertible and wore sunglasses and dated actresses. He lived on the West Coast but was often in Philadelphia to visit family and friends.”

  I think it was the sunglasses that got me to thinking. The actresses, too, maybe, but really the sunglasses. I mean, where did that come from, sunglasses?

  “Wren told me Miles had shadowy contacts with mobsters and drug dealers,” continued Clarence. “Some of his deals had been quite questionable, and there were rumors of an incident in Fresno that left one man dead.”

  “Fresno?” I said.

  “Yes, that’s right. Fresno. Wren told me that he didn’t trust Miles, didn’t really want anything to do with him. But Mr. Trocek had done him a favor in the past, and Wren wanted to help him with his investment. Miles, with his contact at the bank, was perfect for that. So Wren asked me to draft the agreement quite carefully, to protect everybody in case Miles stepped out of line.”

  “Did you ever talk to this Miles fellow?” I said.

  “Once, on the phone,” said Clarence.

  I watched him closely as he spoke.

  “His voice was deep, booming,” said Clarence. “He called me ‘Clarence, old buddy,’ even though we’d never met. He tried to be helpful, but he wouldn’t tell me much. He said his accountant would get back to me to answer my questions, but the accountant never did.”

  Clarence spoke now with none of the hesitancy or meandering language that had typified his speech before then, and I let him. He tossed off a few more details, he mentioned something about a toupee. I nodded and returned his smirk when he told it, but I wasn’t listening anymore. It was the “Clarence, old buddy” that did it finally, and the way Clarence Swift couldn’t avoid the slight sneer that appeared on his lips when he repeated it. As soon as I heard it, I realized what I should have realized long ago. That Miles Cave didn’t exist. That he had never existed. That he was a figment of Wren Denniston’s imagination, and Clarence knew it.

  Clarence kept on talking, telling me what he could about Miles Cave, with his convertible and sunglasses and actress girlfriends, with his life that contained everything that Clarence’s did not, while I looked again around the office.

  Piles of files, documents, small drawers for keeping three-by-five cards listing rentals paid. All the hallmarks of a crimped legal practice and a real estate management company barely getting by. And the photographs in their frames. Clarence with an older man, his father, maybe? Another portrait of that older man, staring fiercely at the camera. Clarence with Wren Denniston. Clarence with his secretary, Edna. And one of a woman, tall and broad. It looked like Edna in her younger years, but that’s not who it was. I had seen that photograph before, Clarence had shown a copy of it to me in my office. It was of his fiancée, Margaret.

  But I recognized the woman from more than her picture.

  Clarence Swift again pulled out the handkerchief and wiped his brow. He had worked up quite a sweat manufacturing his Miles Cave tale. I almost felt like clapping.

&nbs
p; “I hope that helped, Victor,” said Clarence as he snapped his handkerchief back into his pocket.

  “It did,” I said. “More than you know. Thank you.”

  “Do you need something, Mr. Swift?” called the secretary again from the outer office.

  “We’re fine, Edna. Fine.” He looked at me, pursed his lips as if at the trials he suffered at the hands of his secretary. “And I again apologize for misleading you initially.”

  “No harm, no foul, Clarence. Have you heard from this Mr. Cave lately?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You’ll let me know if you do.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think he might have killed Dr. Denniston?”

  “It’s possible, maybe probable. From what Wren told me, I sensed he could be quite dangerous.”

  “Fresno,” I said, nodding.

  “Yes, Fresno. But one thing I know for sure is that Mrs. Denniston had nothing to do with the murder.”

  “How are you so certain that she didn’t?” I said as I stood.

  “Because I know her,” said Clarence. “She is a unique woman, so extraordinary in so many many ways. It would be impossible for her. Just impossible. The very thought…”

  “Yes,” I said. “The very thought.”

  “I hope you find him, Victor. Find him and drag him to justice.”

  “That’s just what I intend to do,” I said.

  27

  So why didn’t I charge up to the bastard, grab him by the lapels, butt him in the chest like an irate French soccer player, and call him a liar?

  Because he would have denied it, in a whining, plaintive voice that would have set my teeth on edge and my ears to bleeding. Because I couldn’t have proved it, not yet at least. Because I didn’t understand what it was all about or what it had to do with Wren Denniston’s murder or what happened to the money, and I didn’t think it advisable to spook him before I had some answers. But I now knew one thing for sure, if I hadn’t known it already.

  Clarence Swift was the enemy, deadly or not, I couldn’t yet tell, but without doubt the enemy.

  “So we done roaming and ready to get down to getting me my money?” said Derek as I stalked away from Swift & Son while Derek followed on my heels.

  “I’m going back to the office now,” I said. “You can fill in the tax forms there.”

  “I been thinking about that tax thing, and I got to tell you, bo, it’s not such a good idea. Really, why bring the tax man in on our business and get all legal on me?”

  “Because I’m a lawyer, Derek. You know, if your income is low enough, you might get money back from the government. Filing your taxes could provide a financial windfall.”

  “But it’s the principle of the thing, know what I mean?”

  “Unfortunately, I think that I do. Now, could you do me a favor and let me think for a bit?”

  “Sure can. I don’t mean to be messing with your mind.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But what I was—”

  “Derek.”

  “I only mean—”

  “Derek.”

  “Okay, bo. I can take a hint.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s just that…”

  He kept talking. That was just the way he was built, but I tuned him out as I tried to figure what the hell was going on.

  Why had Wren Denniston invented Miles Cave? To create a partnership for Gregor Trocek’s money. Why do that? The only answer was that he had planned to steal the money from the start. I’d bet almost anything that the date of the partnership’s creation was after Wren discovered the embezzlement in Taipei that killed the hedge fund and caused Inner Circle’s collapse. Gregor needed a vehicle to invest his illegal cash. Wren created it, all the while plotting to steal the cash and leave Gregor searching for the mysterious Miles Cave. And how much did Clarence know about it? Probably everything.

  Did the missing money have anything to do with Wren Denniston’s murder? I’d bet yes—one point seven mil is a lot of motive—but then who pulled the trigger? Gregor Trocek, who put the money up in the first place? He was still searching for Miles Cave, he’d been duped, maybe he’d found out what had happened and decided to get some revenge before he found the cash. Or maybe it was someone who knew where the money had gone to. Someone like Julia? But she had an alibi. Someone like Clarence Swift? Who had created the partnership? Who was probably in on the scheme from the start? Who was lying to everyone to protect his secret?

  Clarence Swift.

  Right now I’d bet it was that sleazy little weasel who had tipped off the cops that I’d been out of my apartment the night of the murder when in fact I’d been in all night. Who had tipped off Gregor from a pay phone that I was the one who knew where his money was hiding. Who had created that letter from Miles Cave and then put my address and a signature that seemingly matched mine onto it. That’s why he had closed his briefcase as soon as I came in my office door, he had pilfered a letter from my desk to get his specimen. And I knew just how the son of a bitch had slipped the bogus letter into the Inner Circle file.

  He was setting me up, trying to deflect the blame from himself, trying to yoke a collar around my neck while he waltzed off with the prize.

  There were enough permutations to give a mathematician a headache, but the whole thing made sense, sort of. I could believe I had figured it all out, sort of. Except for the part about Clarence doing the shooting. He was a small, twisted little man, but Clarence Swift, with his bow ties and dusty old office, with his diffident manner and false humility, didn’t seem like the type that would kill over money. I had seen the Dylan Klebold in him and so I believed he could kill, but money didn’t seem to power his engine. Then what did?

  I found the answer sitting in plain sight on top of my desk.

  Derek was up front, waiting as Ellie prepared the tax forms and receipt for him to sign. I was sitting behind my desk, still puzzling over it all, when I idly started paging through a file. It was the file I had gotten from Inner Circle, the file that contained all the letters of complaint. It was a sad file, full of sad letters from those who had suffered great losses, the kind of file that lawyers find great joy in, because it contains the possibility of great profit. And I was trying to find the joy in there when Derek showed up at my office door.

  “I filled out them forms,” he said. “Signed them, too.”

  I closed the file and looked up at him.

  “I still don’t like the idea,” he said. “It doesn’t seem right somehow.”

  “Hand them over.”

  He handed them over, I gave them a quick scan. It was all official, and signed, just like he said. I took the forms and put them into my desk drawer. Then I pulled out my wallet and counted one hundred and ninety dollars. I held the bills out to him, he took hold, but I didn’t let go.

  “You did a good job, Derek,” I said. “You earned this.”

  “Fine, bo.”

  “You can be proud of the work you did.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pause.

  “You going to let it loose so I can be on my way,” he said, “or am I going to have to cut off your hand?”

  “It’s just that I want you to know that you can do something real with your life. You don’t have to dance on the wrong side with your boys on the corner.”

  “I told you I was just hanging.”

  “Maybe, but hanging often turns into something else. And then you’re just being used by a bunch of creeps who don’t give a damn about anything but their business.”

  “Is the lecture a necessary part of it? Is that another requirement along with the tax forms?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “I know what you’re saying. But I don’t think there’s a great demand outside of this office for my detecting services, know what I mean?”

  “You don’t know, Derek. Get some training, find an entry-level job with a PI firm. I could help you get started. You just don’
t know.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know.”

  He gave a yank. I let go. He loosed a bright smile as he stuffed the wad into a pocket. “Thanks, bo.”

  Just as he turned to leave, I noticed it. On the outside of the file that was sitting on my desk. The printing. Made by hand. All capital letters. “COMPLAINT LETTERS.” Just two words, but they reminded me of something. And when I looked close, I could see it. The way the L looped. The way the S curved. It all came together like a thunderclap.

  “Hey, Derek,” I said before he was out the door. “You busy tonight?”

  He stopped, leaned back into the office. “Not really.”

  “I might have another job for you.”

  “My usual rates?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thirty an hour.”

  “It was twenty-five.”

  “But that was before I got all this detecting experience.”

  “Okay.”

  “Plus expenses.”

  “Fine.”

  “Beautiful. So what do you need from me?”

  I opened a desk drawer, pulled out a small brick of electronics, tossed it to him.

  “This is a mini tape recorder. I want you to go to the store and buy some mini tapes that fit. And then I want you to spend some time and figure out how the damn thing works.”

  28

  It was a neat little Cape Cod, white and freshly painted, in a neat little neighborhood in Haddonfield, New Jersey. The lawn was well cared for, the perennials beneath the dogwood were neatly weeded, there was a cat in the window. The cat was gray and fluffy, and it eyed me with evident suspicion. Smart cat.