The Bequest

by Nancy Boyarsky

  Table of Contents

  Reviews

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Nicole Graves Mysteries

  Reviews

  praise for nancy boyarsky’s nicole graves mysteries

  “full of page-by-page surprises”

  –Kirkus Reviews

  “...nail-biting adventure whose thralls are difficult to escape”

  –Foreword Reviews

  “a hold-onto-the-bar roller coaster of a mystery”

  –RT Book Reviews

  “a charming and straight-shooting heroine”

  –Foreword Reviews

  “Well written, non-stop, can’t-put-it-down suspense.”

  –Charles Rosenberg, bestselling author of “Death on a High Floor”

  “Taut, suspenseful, and fast-paced...”

  –Laura Levine, author of the Jaine Austen mystery series

  Title Page

  the bequest

  a Nicole Graves mystery

  nancy boyarsky

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2017, by Nancy Boyarksy

  The Bequest

  Nancy Boyarsky

  www.nancyboyarsky.com

  nboyarsky@lightmessages.com

  Published 2017, by Light Messages

  www.lightmessages.com

  Durham, NC 27713 USA

  SAN: 920-9298

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-190-9

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61153-189-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016956069

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Dedication

  For Bill,

  the love of my life and my partner in crime.

  One

  The day was hot, the sun so bright Nicole found herself digging in her purse for her sunglasses before she stepped out of the international terminal at LAX. Waiting in line for a cab, she got out her phone and tapped in a quick message to her sister. “Just landed. Trip a disaster. Talk later.”

  She found a cab and got in. Consumed by her tangled thoughts, she was surprised when the cabbie stopped and asked for the fare. They were already in front of her office building, and she had no idea how they’d gotten there.

  She was still wearing the clothes she’d chosen for the plane ride home: jeans, tennis shoes, and a pink cotton-knit hoodie. Not the way she normally dressed for an office where the attorneys still wore suits and ties. As she walked in, pulling her carry-on bag, she waved and smiled at the people who looked up. Then she dashed for her office, so no one had a chance to ask about her trip. Breanna, her assistant, got up from her own desk and trailed Nicole into her glass-partitioned office. Nicole set her purse down and flipped quickly through her messages. There was nothing urgent and, more importantly, nothing from Reinhardt. She turned her attention to Breanna and the firm’s missing investigator, Robert Blair.

  Breanna was pale, her brow furrowed with worry. She was smart and eager to please, but not much of a self-starter. She was easily rattled, at a complete loss when things didn’t go according to plan. While Nicole was in London, she’d left Breanna in charge of the office with the proviso that she consult Robert if she ran into something she couldn’t handle.

  But Robert hadn’t shown up at the law firm or answered his phone since the previous Wednesday; today was Monday. This was completely out of character for a man who was never late, rarely missed a day’s work, and never without calling. Even so, Breanna had waited until this morning to dispatch a message about Robert’s absence to Nicole. That message had sent Nicole straight to the office from the airport.

  First, there was the matter of his work. Through the glass, she could see a stack of folders on his desk. As Bascomb, Rice, Smith & Di Angelo’s sole in-house investigator, Robert had a sizable caseload. Some he farmed out; occasionally he enlisted Nicole’s help if she wasn’t too busy.

  “For now,” she said to Breanna, “why don’t you call Wessler. You know, the P.I. we use sometimes? You have his number. Get him and his crew working on Robert’s cases.” She gestured to the pile on his desk. “Oh, and first make sure there’s nothing we need to keep in-house. Ask Hopkins. He’ll know. I’ll go up to Robert’s place and see if he’s there. Maybe he had a heart attack or something. ”

  “I’ll go,” Breanna said, although her expression said this was the last thing she wanted to do. “You must be completely jetlagged.”

  “Actually, I’m fine,” Nicole said. “I slept on the plane. I’ll do it.”

  As office manager, Nicole had a master key to the desks of the support staff. She unlocked Robert’s top drawer. There was his Swiss Army knife, a tool he swore by but rarely carried with him. The next compartment of the desk organizer held several sets of keys. One ring had three keys and a tiny round tag marked “house.” She picked it up. Two other key rings were similarly labeled “car” and “cabin” in Robert’s small, neat writing. Cabin? She didn’t know he had a cabin, although he did take time off sometimes. She always imagined it was for the cases he took on his own, independent of the firm. Maybe he went fishing or even bird watching. She almost smiled. It was impossible to picture him doing these things.

  Nicole sent an email about Robert’s unexplained absence to Kevin Di Angelo, the senior partner she usually dealt with. Then she printed out Robert’s home address. She took one of the firm’s loaner cars from the garage and put her suitcase in the trunk. After typing the address into the GPS, she drove from Century City up into the Hollywood Hills. Robert’s address was on one of the winding roads several miles above Sunset Boulevard. Her mind was focused on Reinhardt, her missing lover, and the fact that Robert, who was sort of a work buddy of hers, was now missing, too. These distractions sent her sailing by Robert’s street twice. Each time, the GPS reset itself, turning her around, then sent her onto the dead end of a cul-de-sac. Exasperated, she stopped, reset the GPS, and at last it took her to the address. She parked at the curb and, after studying the house for a moment, wondered if she’d made a mistake. She looked at the printout she’d brought with her. Yes, this was the place.

  The houses on the block were big and looked expensive—very expensive. The street was on the crest of a hill with a panoramic view of downtown, Century City and, if a house were angled just so, the ocean. Robert’s property was the largest, appearing to occupy two lots. The house was set back a distance from neighbors on either side. The house itself was screened from view by well-manicured shrubs and tropical, tree-sized plants, which were being whipped around by the wind. All she could see from the street was a long driveway in a diamond pattern of concrete and brick. At the top, Robert’s SUV, a shiny black Kia, was parked
in a handsomely designed carport. She pulled into the driveway and up the fifty-foot stretch to the top, parking behind him. From this angle she still couldn’t see the house, just a gate next to the carport.

  She got out of the car and was hit by the fierce, warm Santa Ana wind. It was November, for heaven’s sake, but this was L.A.; ninety degrees and windy was possible any time of the year.

  As she approached the gate, she glanced up at the trees beating about in the wind. That was when she spotted the security camera. It had been fastened to the top of one of the posts that supported the carport. The camera was broken, dangling from a cord. Bits of broken glass glinted on the pavement below. She wondered what had happened. The tropical shrubs were tall, but their branches were hardly substantial enough to pack much of a wallop. Even in a strong wind, it was unlikely they could hit the camera hard enough to smash it and knock it from its mounting.

  The gate to the front yard had a keypad but no visible knob or latch. She thought of the keys she’d brought along. They wouldn’t be much help with this setup. The keypad had an intercom speaker with a button next to it. She pressed the button, assuming it would ring a bell inside the house. At her touch, the gate silently swung open. It hadn’t been locked. She walked into the yard. She still couldn’t see the front door, so she turned left and followed a path of Spanish tiles around the house. This led to a tall, decorative wrought-iron fence that enclosed the backyard, which held a swimming pool and a deck. Beyond the pool was a magnificent view, from downtown to the ocean. The sky above was brilliant blue. Below, hanging over the city, was a pale haze of smog.

  She tried the gate, but it was locked. Beyond it, she could see the back entrance to the house. She reversed course. There had to be a front door.

  The more she looked at the house, the more questions it raised. How could Robert possibly afford a place like this? He’d been a cop for a number of years. That meant a pension. But it still didn’t add up. This house was worth at least three, maybe four, million dollars. House payments, not to mention property taxes, would be more than he earned, even with a pension and the work he did on the side.

  Finally, she reached the front door. She rang the bell, but there was no answer. She knocked loudly, then shouted Robert’s name. Nothing. The door had three locks: one in the doorknob, a deadbolt just above it, and another deadbolt about a foot from the ground. Looking at the keys in her hand, she decided to try the lock in the doorknob first. The knob turned easily, and the door opened. None of the locks had been engaged. She pushed the door open a crack. The drapes were drawn, and the interior was almost dark. She gave another shout. “Robert? Are you there?” No answer.

  She opened the door wider, pulled off her sunglasses, and took a step inside, about to call out again. But as her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw him. He was less than a dozen feet away, across the octagonal entry hall. He was half sitting, half sagging against the wall, and there was a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. On the wall above, at eye level, was a Rorschach splotch of crimson so dark it was almost black, surrounded by a fine splatter of the same color. Below that was a dark smear where his head had rubbed against the wall on its way down. Flies were buzzing around Robert’s head as well as near the splotches on the wall. Only now did she notice the smell, a metallic stink mixed with the sweet undertone of decay. She held her breath and studied Robert’s face.

  He was staring right at her with a deadpan expression, as if he’d just made one of his wry jokes and was waiting for her to laugh.

  Nicole felt a wave of shock that almost knocked the breath out of her. During her misadventure in the U.K. the previous year, she’d been forced to kill two men in self-defense, one with a sledgehammer and the second with a flare gun. The sight of Robert’s body summoned flashbacks that made her legs go wobbly. She grabbed the doorframe to steady herself, took a step back, and turned to run.

  Halfway to her car, Nicole stopped to consider what she’d just seen, or thought she’d seen. She’d taken an Ambien on the plane. It had given her six hours of sleep. Then, somewhere over Salt Lake City, her eyes had popped open, and she was wide-awake, feeling as if she’d had one too many cups of coffee. Ambien was known for its strange side effects. Was it possible she’d been hallucinating?

  She forced herself to turn around, walk back to the front door and, after taking a deep gulp of fresh air, lean in for another look. He was still there, along with the flies, the smell, the bloody wall and that incongruous, half-amused expression on his face. It occurred to her that perhaps he’d killed himself, but there was no gun in sight. The entry hall had a wooden parquet floor and a thick, sapphire-blue rug near the door. A single piece of furniture stood against one wall, a handsome, modern console table with an art deco lamp. Both looked expensive. For the briefest second, a thought flickered. Robert shopping for furniture? She couldn’t imagine it. Had he hired a decorator? She couldn’t imagine that either.

  She stepped back into the fresh air and focused on what she had to do next—get away from this place and call the police. A sudden burst of adrenalin, and she was in her car, backing down the driveway. She parked in front of the nearest house and, despite her badly shaking hands, managed to get out her phone and call 911.

  Two

  It was only a few minutes before she heard sirens. Three patrol cars pulled up in front of Robert’s house. Nicole had already called the office and told Di Angelo what had happened.

  “Holy Christ!” he said. After a few seconds of silence, he told her he was going to send someone out to be with her. She tried to refuse, insisting she was all right, but he wouldn’t have it. “Listen. This kind of thing is very upsetting. They’ll keep you waiting while they search the place. Then they’ll want to take your statement. It could be hours before they let you go.”

  Nicole sighed. All at once she felt tired, and she realized she’d been shivering since she got into her car. She reached over and turned off the air conditioner. “OK,” she said. “Could you send John Gillingham?” He was a new associate—a decent guy, young and married with a new baby. He had a good sense of humor, and she felt more comfortable with him than most of the attorneys she worked with.

  She waited while Di Angelo had his secretary check Gillingham’s whereabouts.

  “He just left for a deposition.” Di Angelo said. “I’ll send Rick. He was just in here.”

  “Please don’t bother. I have a book to read. I’m fine. Really,” Nicole said.

  “No, I insist,” Di Angelo said. “You may think you’re all right, but you’re not. Take it from me. Give me the address. I’ll send him right up there.”

  They hung up, and Nicole sighed again. Rick Sargosian was Di Angelo’s stepson, and they had an especially strong bond. With Di Angelo’s help, Rick had stepped into partnership after a stint in the D.A.’s office and only a year with the firm.

  Nicole didn’t much like Rick. He was in his mid-30s, unattached, and a resolute skirt chaser. In her opinion, he walked a fine line between flirtatiousness and sexual harassment. When a new female was added to the staff—if she was even remotely attractive—he’d immediately ask her out and proceed to have a fling, if she was willing. Before long, he’d move on. He expended so much time and energy on this activity, it was almost as if he considered it part of his job. He’d worked his way through eight or nine of the women in the office, while openly flirting with others. It amazed Nicole that no one had registered a complaint against him.

  She, herself, had managed to keep Rick at a distance. But having him sent up here to provide moral support was a joke. His whole demeanor annoyed her, and she didn’t welcome the idea of being the focus of his attention for the afternoon. The firm’s stated policy forbade romantic entanglements between employees, but this was never enforced. Nicole, as office manager, ignored these relationships, as long as they were reasonably discreet. People being what they were, it was futile to tell a pool of young men and women who worked together not to get involved. It only mad
e them secretive. So, unless they were disappearing into a utility closet to have sex on the firm’s dime—which had never happened, at least to her knowledge—she let these things go.

  She did, however, caution the women she hired about getting involved with the firm’s attorneys, especially the married ones. In terms of clout, the lawyers were a substantial step above support staff. And fraternization could have serious consequences, the least of which was the awkwardness of working for an ex-lover after a breakup.

  By now the police were out of their cars. She started her engine, pulled up behind the last black-and-white, and got out. She introduced herself, then pointed out Robert’s house and told them where to find his body.

  A tall, burly cop with a red face seemed to be in charge. He assigned a younger officer, whose nametag identified him as Derek Leonard, to wait with her while they checked out the scene.

  Leonard was a slight, young man with a hangdog look and an inability—at least with her—to maintain eye contact. Without meeting her eyes, he gestured toward the patrol car.

  “I’d be a lot more comfortable in my own car,” she protested.

  “I have to get your fingerprints and check your ID,” he said. “It’s easier in the patrol car, if you don’t mind.”

  Nicole did mind, but she settled into his passenger seat and pulled out her driver’s license while he went around to the trunk to get a large utility bag. He got out the fingerprint kit and took her prints. Then he took her driver’s license and copied the information into his notebook.

  “I’m going to sit in my own car now,” she said. He seemed about to protest, and she added, “You can come with me if you want.” Once they were in her car, there was an uncomfortable silence. She wondered why he felt obliged to sit with her. Was it to make sure she didn’t leave before they questioned her?