Unknown Means (18 page)

Evelyn tensed her jaw to keep it from dropping. “Um. Tax-deductible?”

His shoulders brushed the doorjamb on either side, effectively trapping her. “Of course not. As a for-profit hospital, we’re not a 501(c)(3). Are you a friend of Frannie’s?”

“No, not really. I was also wondering about Grace Markham.”

His voice dropped in both tone and warmth. “What about her?”

“Is she still active in Butterfly Babies fund-raising?”

“Why? Who are you?”

She moved toward the door, closer to him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m from next door—the ME’s office. I’m working on Mrs. Markham’s death, and I have some questions.”

He nodded, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his head cocked slightly and his hands in his pockets. The relaxed pose did not reassure her, did not make up for the intensity of his gaze. “I didn’t know you were allowed to do that.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Evelyn existed in a gray area so far as authority went. As a scientist working to resolve a case, she could ask

questions of anyone she liked. Of course, she had no authority to make them answer.

He appraised her for another moment, leaning close enough for her to decide she didn’t care for his aftershave. “Grace was a nice woman. She headed up a dance we had two years ago at Horn-blower’s, did a terrific job. I was sorry to hear about her death.”

“Did she and Frances work together here?”

“I’m sure their paths crossed.”

“Any problems with either of them?”

“What sorts of problems?”

“Any sort. We’re investigating Grace’s death. I want to know about her friends.”

“Really. I’m afraid I have nothing to share. I didn’t see much of her for the past few years.”

“Thank you, then.” Evelyn moved to leave, and he turned side-ways and leaned on the door molding to let her brush past him into the hall.

“It’s too bad, what happened to Marissa.”

She froze. His features were masked by the dimness of the room, but the outline of his body stood sharp and tense.

“She works for you, doesn’t she?”

Evelyn stopped trying to sound cool. “What would you know about it?”

He pushed off from the wall and came toward her. Away from the light in his office, he became a dark, hulking form in the dim hallway. But his voice remained light, as if he were playing a game he hadn’t let her in on. “Just what I read in the paper this morning.

She’s such a beautiful girl—and about to be married, I understand.”

“How do you know her?”

“Marissa did her undergraduate co-op in the pathology lab here.

I headed up the lab at the time. Great student. Very . . . intense.”

Evelyn hated the way he said it, hated the way her friend’s name sounded rolling off this man’s tongue. A thousand questions

flooded her mind, and she didn’t want to ask a single one of them.

Instead, she stated, “And now you’re in fund-raising.”

“Better hours.” He crossed in front of her and held the outer door open. “Be sure to let her know I wish her a speedy recovery.”

Evelyn left. She bypassed the elevator and headed for the stairs, trotting downward as if the Riviere killer followed on her heels.

C H A P T E R

15

DAVID COULD HAVE INSISTED THAT FRANCES DUARTE’S

accountant come to the station, but he felt like getting out of the cramped homicide unit—maybe he did have wanderlust, as Riley had accused—and figured an accountant with rich clients would have a much more comfortable office in which to meet.

He figured wrong. The firm of Merrill, Brandon and Steinberg rested on the fourth floor of the historic Cleveland Arcade, a hundred-plus-year-old structure of glass and brass and tile, officially the first indoor shopping mall in the young United States. But all the glass and brass did not absorb sound, and at quitting time, cacophony reigned.

And Patrick Merrill did not, to judge from his workplace, believe in spending his dollars on designers or in making clients so comfortable that they might overstay their welcome. David and Riley perched on hard metal chairs with their knees brushing the front of the accountant’s desk.

“How long have you kept Miss Duarte’s books?” David asked.

“I’ve managed her family’s foundation accounts since she was a child.”

David raised one eyebrow. “She was only forty-five, and you can’t be more than ten years older than that.”

The man smiled for the first time, his chubby cheeks lifting.

“That’s true. I meant since she was eighteen and came into her trust fund. Steinberg had handled the family’s money for longer than that, but they were one of the families he handed over to me as I developed my career.”

“Where did the money come from?”

“Steel, originally. Frances’s grandfather owned the first steel mill in Cleveland back when men came by the boatload from eastern Europe to work here. He had the sense to diversify into shipping and real estate before steel took a turn for the worse. He’d roll over in his grave if he knew how Republic Steel—I mean LTV—died out.”

“What did Frances’s father do?” David asked.

“Took care of the businesses like a shepherd with sheep. Unlike most second generations, he didn’t tear through it in a wild youth.

And Frances inherited that sense.”

David leaned forward, bumping his knee. “Did she have any recent or ongoing conflicts over the funds? Did she and her sister disagree over their shares? Any long-lost relatives coming out of the woodwork, an injured worker suing for a few billion dollars?”

Merrill shook his head with a slight smile. “Not at all.”

“Then why did you call us?” Riley asked.

“Frances is—was—about to lose a great deal of money. It wouldn’t have bankrupted her, of course, but it’s still a substantial amount.”

David flipped open his notepad. “How much? And why?”

“She made a bad investment on the advice of a friend. I wish I could stop clients from doing that. I tried to tell her—”

“What investment? What friend?”

Another slight smile. Apparently Merrill found the rashness of nonfinancial personnel amusing, or perhaps bemusing. “Frances invested in the Alexander salt mine company. She seemed to feel that the Flats area needed to reclaim its industrial heritage to bring this city out of its depression.”

Riley nodded. David said, “The mine that just caved in?”

“Salt mines don’t cave in. There was an explosion.”

“So the investment is not going to work out?”

“For reasons that have nothing to do with the explosion. Don’t get me wrong, gentlemen—the original portion of the Alexander salt mine company is rock solid. It’s been, like the Duartes’ money, in the family for several generations—probably why Frances trusted the girl. Alexander wanted to open a new mine on Front Street, and Frances went ahead with her investment even though I warned her that the price of salt couldn’t support the massive overhead required to open a new mine. The new mine has been losing money since the first day; the accident is only the final nail in its coffin. Frances wouldn’t have made a penny back, and the papers were written well.

She couldn’t have appealed to the main company for any retribution. I pointed that out to her as well, but—”

“What girl?”

“Hmm? Oh, Kelly Alexander, the owner’s daughter. A friend of Frances’s. I think they had several charity concerns in common, though they had been acquainted for years.”

“How much money?”

“One point seven million.”

David felt his jaw slacken.

The accountant nodded. “Yes. Not an inconsequential amount.”

“That’s like an entire year’s salary for one of the Indians’ second string,” Riley said. “So Frances got pretty irate with this Kelly?”

“No, no. I had advised Frances against the investment, but she insisted that she knew the risk, and besides, Kelly Alexander stands to lose even more—of her own money, not the company’s.”

“Did Frances ask Kelly to help her make some of the money back?”

“No. She didn’t seem to bear any ill will against Miss Alexander, and she would not have been destitute. The loss represents only seven percent of her entire estate.”

“Then why did you call us?”

“Because it’s still one point seven million dollars. I couldn’t be sure it was not, well—”

“Significant.”

“Exactly.”

EVELYN MOVED SLOWLY across the parking lot behind the squat Medical Examiner’s Office, despite the first few drops of a spring drizzle. She needed Marissa to wake up and explain some things.

Who the hell was Mark Sargeant to her, and why did she have a clipping about a dead woman in her purse?

If Marissa had worked at Butterfly Babies when she was in undergraduate school, perhaps she’d met Grace and Frances at that time—but what would fund-raising have to do with pathology? Besides, Grace would have still been working as a photojournalist and presumably wouldn’t have had much time for charity work.

Could Mark Sargeant have been the man in Marissa’s hospital room, the one Evelyn had struggled with? Standing close to him in the hospital offices, she hadn’t felt the slightest shred of recognition. But as David had pointed out, eyewitness testimony was notoriously unreliable. She wanted to believe, as all humans did, that her instincts were better than average, but wishful thinking might have been exactly that.

Maybe Sargeant hadn’t meant to insinuate something slimy when he spoke of Marissa. Perhaps he’d thought he sounded charming, chatting in the dark.

But all that still wouldn’t explain why someone had decided to try to execute the three women.

“Hi,” said a voice to her left. A slight form in a raincoat moved to shelter her with an umbrella, nearly poking her eye out in the process. “Can you believe it’s raining again? Must be lake effect.”

The newspaper reporter. “Clio,” Evelyn said.

“It’s Greek, you know.” The young woman fell into step beside

her. “The name. It means ‘the proclaimer, the woman who made known her opinion.’ Appropriate, huh?”

“I thought reporters were supposed to deal in fact, not opinion.”

“Good point. Are you okay? You seem to be limping.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you made any progress in the Riviere cases? Or the Duarte case? It is the same guy, isn’t it?”

“What makes you say that?”

“About six patrol officers, each of whom shall remain nameless.”

“Great,” Evelyn muttered, picking up her pace a bit.

“So what about it? I need official confirmation.”

They reached the dock, and Evelyn trotted up the three steps to the back entrance. Unfortunately, the overhead door had been opened for a funeral home, now loading a gurney into the back of their hearse, and Clio Helms followed her right through it. “Talk to the homicide unit. It’s their investigation.”

“Detectives are boring. It’s forensics that’s the glamour job nowadays. How about a personal, slice-of-life story on you? Readers would love to hear about what it’s really like.”

Evelyn turned and faced the woman to keep her from moving any farther into the building. “Look around you.”

Three gurneys sat at random in the loading area. Two of their occupants had been neatly zipped into white plastic body bags, but the single sheet over the third allowed an emaciated lower leg to poke free. Clio paled a bit but said, “So? I grew up on East Eighty-fifth and Quincy. I stumbled over a dead body in our stairwell while going to catch the bus. Mom had to write a note for my third-grade teacher to explain why I came in late.”

“But does this seem glamorous to you?”

“Tell me what it’s really like, then. My readers would love to know. I’d love to know.”

A counterattack seemed in order. “How is your sister? The one that got stabbed by her bridesmaid.”

The change of topics seemed to surprise the young reporter, but she promptly recovered. “She’s fine. It took eighteen stitches and sure didn’t do much for the white dress, though. Why?”

“I like to know the end of the story.”

“So do I.”

Evelyn sighed. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t. All public statements issue from the medical examiner. His office is on the second floor. I’ll show you to the lobby.”

“I’ve already been there.” Clio stuck her pen behind her ear, pushing back caramel-colored curls, but made no move to leave. “So why do you think this guy is on such a rampage?”

“Second floor. Let me show you—”

“Did you know Grace Markham and Frances Duarte were friends?”

Evelyn stopped. Clio waited. Behind her, the deskman had waved the hearse on its way and now stood in the open doorway, considering the young reporter’s form with an appreciative eye. “I assumed they were acquainted. They must have traveled in the same social circles, had the same interests.”

“They were more than acquainted. They served on the Downtown Festival committee and the children’s hospital capital campaign.”

“I know.”

“They belonged to the same country club.”

“Mmm-hmm. I’m sure it has quite a few members. Besides, if you have information to share, Ms. Helms, you should share it with the investigating detectives.”

“I thought if I tipped you off, you could return the favor.”

“Sorry. I can’t help you.”

“I’m not asking you to compromise the investigation. I mean after you catch the guy, give me the scoop. An insider’s account of the process and the apprehension.”

“I appreciate your confidence in us, and I’m sure that’s a reasonable—”

“They were close friends.”

“What?” Evelyn turned to accept three boxes of sterile cotton swabs from the purchasing secretary, who thrust them into her arms without explanation and kept going. An order must have come in.