Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (15 page)

I produced the Xeroxes of JQ's final papers
from beneath my shirt and slid them across the table to him. And I
lied a little. I do that, sometimes, in a good enough cause.

"The originals of these papers are in legal
hands and will be formally recorded with the probate court on
Monday morning. There will also be an emergency motion to have you
removed from further influence over Karen, plus a change of venue
to an impartial judge. Then we'll all discover who is really in
charge here, kiddo."

Kalinsky was giving me a
stunned, sick look—even before he picked up the papers. He
muttered, "We've been eleven years closing this thing. It's
scheduled for formal conclusion in less than a week. You can't
...

By this time he knew what he was holding in
his hands. They were shaking somewhat as he scanned down the lines
of spidery handwriting. He did a quick scan of both papers, then
went back for a close reading, and he did that twice before he
pushed his chair back, refolded the papers, and slid them back to
me.

He said, very quietly, "If
this is fraudulent ..."

I said, just as quietly, "You know it's not.
If anybody could recognize JQ's handwriting, it should be
you."

He sighed and admitted,
"It looks like his. ‘Course, it would take an expert
opinion."

I said, "I'm sure it will pass muster."

He sighed again. "Yeah ...
probably. Well, shit. This makes me feel like hell, you know. All
these years... Thought I enjoyed JQ's confidence. Looks like ...
Well, hell, makes no difference to Karen, all comes out the same,
anyway. Except—well, shit, Ash—this will just muddy everything up
again if you introduce this thing at this point."

I replied, "Probably."

"And it would place Karen in great peril if
you try to challenge the conservancy."

I said, "Maybe."

"Well, maybe we could come to some..."

I said, "Maybe we could."

"I don't give a shit about the money."

I said, " 'Course not."

"Really, I'm sincere about
that. Won't make that much difference, anyway, not to me. Time for
the turnover, anyway. I've earned my fees. I don't see how a court
in the land would take them away from me at this point. But, for
Karen's sake ..."

I said, "For her sake, right."

"What would it take to persuade you to keep
this out of public view until the probate formally closes? That's
only a few days from now."

I told him, "I would have to be persuaded
that I am really a lousy detective and that my scenario is all
wrong, that our interests are identical."

"They are," he assured me, "if you're
talking about being on Karen's side."

I said, "That's what I'm talking about."

The guy really looked like hell. He was
coming apart, for whatever reason. I felt a movement of sympathy
for him—a movement tempered, however, by the unknown factors.

His eyes were watering. He produced a
handkerchief and delicately blew his nose into it, carefully
refolded it, and returned it to a pocket.

"How can I persuade you?" he asked
humbly.

I said, "Believe that my only interest is to
arrive at the truth of Karen's situation. Help me find that truth.
If I then decide that she is in proper hands, here, and that the
proper things are being done for her, then I will fold my tent and
leave you all in peace."

Kalinsky dabbed at his eyes with a knuckle
and said, "Fair enough. Where do we start?"

"We start with the truth," I told him.

"That," he said with a sigh, "is going to be
damned difficult to find. And it just might knock both our socks
off, if we ever get there."

I would remember, later, that he told me
that.

Chapter Nineteen:
Dimensions

So that you may know where I was coming
from, and with what: I had felt that it was vital that I secure
some degree of cooperation from Kalinsky, even if I had to club him
to get it, and even if his reaction was only an appearance of
cooperation.

Consider the circumstances at this point in
the case. My client had been formally accused of manslaughter and,
although she had been released and returned home pending some
adjudication of the crime, the very nature and terms of her release
actually placed her farther beyond my reach than if she had been
jailed. Certain constitutional protections accompany any suspect
into a jail cell; she could have legal counsel, proclaim her
innocence, begin some sort of defense. In this particular
situation, with Kalinsky the jailer, Karen had no rights whatever
but was totally dependent upon the good intentions of her jailer as
to her ultimate fate.

It is important that you understand the fine
legal shadings of the situation. There was not going to be a

"trial"—there would never be a trial in
which Karen's guilt or innocence would be determined or even
examined. The adjudication would be no more than a closed-door
hearing, presided over by a judge—not a jury—the central focus of
which would be to rubber-stamp an already existing legal
determination that Karen Highland is not mentally competent to
answer charges on any criminal complaint. In its very essences,
this would be almost purely an administrative procedure and Karen
would be remanded to the care and "protection" of her legal
conservator.

Now this could be
good—very good—or it could be very, very bad—depending upon the
dimension of reality in which it is cast. I am not knocking the
law—it is a good one, when not abused. If Karen was, indeed,
mentally incompetent, then she deserved that sort of protection—and
especially so if she was indeed guilty of felonious
behavior.

On the other hand, though, if she was not
incompetent and had committed no crime, then the net effect of all
this would be to place her under the total domination of the person
most likely to be the actual criminal.

I had to dimension Kalinsky as a rat if only
because the theory was so pure and the coup so perfect—but there
were other reasons, as well. Suffice it, for now, to say that I
had my guard up all the way during the interchange that follows,
that I was merely probing for truth and hoping to recognize it when
it hit me—that I was simply trying to dimension the reality.

Bear in mind, too, that Kalinsky is a very
sharp cookie. He was probably playing me at the same time that I
was playing him; buying time, the same as me; looking for
advantage, the same as me.

Assuming for the moment
that he is, indeed, a rat, then both considerations—time and
advantage—were vital to us both, whether or not he had actually
bought my bluff regarding the death-bed will. In the rat dimension,
he has had the luxury of eleven years of time to painstakingly
manipulate events, and he is now within hours of his goal. These
hours now, however, could be the undoing of the previous eleven
years; one fumble, one wrong step, and it could all come tumbling
down to engulf him.

It is not that I am so impressive an
opponent, it is simply that I am there and he has not yet been able
to "handle" me, therefore I am an unknown factor—a slippery
surface, so to speak, upon which he has decided to test each step
before consigning his weight to it. So he is playing me carefully,
thinking maybe that he just needs to waltz me through another
thirty-six hours or so and then he is home clean.

Or, in the other dimension, the same
reasoning applies. In this reality, Kalinsky is a devoted and
dedicated servant, convinced or at least fearful that his hard work
of many years is coming to the final test under the most
disheartening of circumstances, and he is trying valiantly to hold
it together to the finish line. Again, I am there, too, an unknown
factor that could be fortune-hunting for itself—and he needs only
to stall me through and fake me out while he end-runs the scoring
drive.

All this I am aware of. I
am also aware that I must manipulate him while he thinks that he is
manipulating me, otherwise I am outside the walls and out of
play.

In the time dimension, I am more at tension
than he. He is holding a pat hand while I bluff with jacks up and
nothing whatever in the hold; he can call this bluff at any time
while I must wait for fresh cards to tell my tale. Time is on his
side, each tick of the clock taking him closer to victory; it is
aligned against me, each tick carrying me farther into the
wilderness of Karen's despair.

I beg your indulgence in all this
exposition. I want the ting to develop for you as it developed for
me, so I felt it necessary to put you in step with my own feelings,
the understanding that accompanied me into this surprising
discussion with Terry Kalinsky.

Is he a rat or is he a saint? Which
dimension are we exploring here? I give it to you as it came to me,
for your personal determination.

It is now close to three o'clock on that
Sunday morning at the Highland estate. By mutual agreement, and
for obvious reasons of privacy, we have moved to Kalinsky's office.
The houseman has brought coffee and pastries because both of us
missed dinner and the temple must be served.

Kalinsky is now coming at me like a regular
guy— on the surface, anyway—and I am responding likewise. He has
been perusing, once again, JQ's final thoughts while munching
Danish. The conversation begins, in its substance, at this
point.

—
Kalinsky
: "Can't get over this. Just
can't get over it. Okay, if he didn't want me, okay, but hell, I'd
have to think he was of unsound mind to tap TJ for the
job."

—
Me:
"His own son,
though."

—
Kalinsky
: "I don't mean inheriting,
I mean executor and trustee. Hell, I always did think it was wrong
to cut TJ out. I mean, he was provided for, sure, but not in any
way he could call his soul his own. So I'm not bitching about this.
It sets things right. As for inheriting, I mean. But TJ never took
any interest in business. Doubt he could even read the Dow and tell
you what it meant. How'd you get this, by the way? Bruno give it to
you?"

—
Me
: "Why Bruno?"

—
Kalinsky:
"Well, I noticed he
witnessed. And Tony. Where the hell has it been all these
years?"

—
Me:
"That's an interesting
pair."

—
He:
"That's putting it mildly. Were
those jerks sitting on this all these years? Why? I don't
understand. Did he tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"About the affidavit he and Tony filed?"

—
Me
: "I'd like to hear your
version."

"No version to it. About four—no, maybe five
years ago. They filed this affidavit saying they'd witnessed a
late-hour change in the will. Claimed they didn't know what it
contained because JQ had it covered up, exposed only the signature
line. Said he died a few hours later and they never saw it
again."

"No effect on the probate, though."

—
Kalinsky
: " 'Course not, how
could it. There was a search, of course. We looked everywhere,
talked to everyone who could have been in contact with him during
those final hours, but ..."

—
Me
: "Who all was
that?"

—
He
: "The personal physician,
now deceased. A nurse. One of the security boys and a couple of
staff people. Oh, and Karen."

"And she was just a kid."

"Yeah. Not quite fourteen. Is she the one...
?"

—
Me
: "Anything significant you
can see about the fact he had Bruno and Tony witness?"

—
Kalinsky
: "No, I guess that
would be—they were with him all the time, his personal men,
'specially those last two years, night and day. Never saw such
devotion. And not just because ..."

—
Me
: "Huh?"

—
He
: "Very devoted. Guess you
knew, they both had that problem."

"You mean, mute. Yeah. Family trait?"

—
Kalinsky:
"Something in the
chromosomes, I guess. More than that, though, no disrespect meant,
but more than that was wrong."

—
Me
: "The
Valensas?"

—
He
: "Well ... those two,
anyway. A little slow, if you get me."

—
Me
: "What aren't you telling
me?"

—
He
: "About what?"

—
Me:
"Valensa."

—
Kalinsky
: "Oh. Well ... maybe you
know already. Maybe not. Doesn't really make a shit not, I guess.
They were Karen's uncles, only living relatives. Now there are
none."

—
Me,
about twenty seconds
later: "Elena's brothers."

—
He
: "Yeah."

—
Me
: "They had a take in that
new will, TK."

—
He:
"Maybe so. Too bad they
didn't produce it sooner, then. I told you, slow. Probably thought
it would be disloyal to Karen."