Frame 232 (7 page)

“No, please,” he said, his voice unsteady. “You don’t understand. She wouldn’t . . . she wouldn’t do
 
—”

Romeo got to him first and pushed him to the ground.

“I don’t care what she would or wouldn’t do. She was there, she did her thing, and now we get paid. That’s how it works.”

On his back but up on one elbow, Birk said, “Wait a second. For that kind of money I expect
 
—oh no . . .”

The other punk pulled out a gutting knife. The blade was at least a foot long.

“No, please.”

Romeo crouched beside him. “Listen up. I don’t have time for this. You can hand over the five hundred now, or my buddy here can fillet your insides and we can take it along with whatever else you got.” Romeo hiked up his silk shirt and pulled out the gun that had been tucked in his pants. It was matte black and designed more like a sci-fi prop than a serviceable weapon. Birk recognized it immediately as a 9mm.

“And if you still have trouble deciding, maybe this will help. It’ll blow your head into a pink cloud. How’s that sound?”

Birk was hyperventilating now. Putting up a hand, he said, “Okay, let me get up. My wallet’s in my back pocket.”

Romeo rose and took a step back. As Birk got to his feet, he caught a glimpse of the prostitute, who had a triumphant look on her face. She leaned toward the open window on the passenger side and again displayed her fluency with objectionable language.

Struggling to catch his breath, Birk drew a brown leather wallet from the rear pocket of his jeans. He took out five
hundred-dollar bills and counted them demonstratively for everyone’s benefit. “Here,” he said, holding them out.

Romeo, the gun still in his right hand but held slack at his side, came forward. It was the last foolish mistake of his life.

Birk dropped the cash just before the pimp touched it, then spun around and grabbed the wrist of his gun hand while darting an elbow into Romeo’s face. Blood spurted from the pimp’s nose and he screamed. The street punk lunged with the knife, but Birk sidestepped with the kind of graceful dexterity one acquires only through years of training and experience. The blade went under Romeo’s shirt and penetrated his chest on an upward diagonal, slicing into his heart and killing him instantly. His eyes popped open in a darkly comic expression of surprise, then fell shut for good. Birk pivoted while maintaining his hold on the pimp’s body in a horror-show pirouette. Raising the lifeless hand still holding the gun, he wrapped his finger around the trigger and fired into the kid’s elbow. He screamed in agony and went down. Birk then released his dance partner, who crumpled like a doll on the filthy pavement.

As the kid tried to stanch the flow of blood with his good hand, Birk grabbed him by the hood and dragged him toward the BMW. The prostitute, whose face had gone deathly pale, scrambled from the vehicle and ran off screaming. Birk smashed the punk into the door face-first. Bone and cartilage splintered. Birk then rammed him against the car repeatedly until he lost consciousness.

Blood was everywhere now. Birk opened the door and forced the flaccid body inside. Then he walked casually to Romeo’s corpse, dragged it back, and deposited it in the trunk along with the gun; the knife he kept in hand. Getting behind the wheel, he set the BMW in gear and steered it
toward the beach. Then he jammed the knife between the gas pedal and the bottom of the dash until it held enough tension to keep the pedal depressed. Once the car was on course, he stepped out and began walking back. He didn’t bother to watch as it bumped and rolled its way into the ocean.

Retrieving the five hundred dollars, he got into his own car and drove off.

He pulled into the entrance of a gated community twenty minutes later. The uniformed guard smiled and waved. He knew “Mr. Tillman” and was always glad to see him; he wasn’t obnoxious like many of the residents in Sunrise Harbor. Birk waved back before driving through. An understated but sincere “Have a good day” completed the illusion.

His first task upon entering his home was to disarm the security system. Then he removed his bloodstained clothes and put them in a bag. He showered and shaved quickly, got dressed. Then he slid back a secret panel in the ceiling over the basement water heater and took down a large black suitcase. The lock was an electronic scanner that required a thumbprint. Inside was a variety of weapons and explosives. There was also a flat leather pouch. Birk unzipped this and removed a set of ID cards and passports. He separated all those in the name of Brian Clarke and put them in his shirt pocket. The case was relocked and put back. The last task was to pack and reactivate the alarm.

After putting the bloodstained clothes into the community Dumpster, he got into his car and sped off toward the airport. There was a report on the radio about a possible shooting at the Royale Beach condominium complex.

The smile reappeared on his face.

“YOUR MAMA
was a wonderful woman,” Henry Moore said. He had been the Baker family lawyer for as long as Sheila could remember. He was well into his seventies now with fine white hair and sallow features. And he still had the tiny second-floor office in downtown Dallas overlooking Federal Boulevard. Sheila felt like she’d stepped into the 1960s. Faded wallpaper, sagging and water-stained ceiling tiles, and a radiator that hissed like a huge snake. Fairly pedestrian for a wealthy lawyer, but then Moore had never been the flashy type. No silk suits or gold pinkie rings here.

“She sure was. The best mother anyone could have asked for.” Sheila sat on one of the cushioned chairs facing the desk.

The last seventy-two hours had been brutal. First the wake with two viewings, then the funeral. More than fifty people had attended the church service and interment, and at least twenty had come to the house afterward. A caterer had been hired to handle the food, but Sheila had cleaned up the mess herself. She’d wanted to keep busy.

“I knew both of them through five decades,” Moore said, stressing the word
five
.

Sheila nodded. “Since 1969, right?”

“That’s right. Your daddy came to me looking for help writing his and your mama’s will. We settled the matter in less than an hour over two glasses of Scotch. That was when you could do business with a handshake.”

“Those days appear to be long gone.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So how do things look?”

Moore addressed a set of papers and folders that he’d laid out neatly on the desk. “Pretty good, young lady. Pretty good.” He picked up a single sheet and peered at it over his bifocals. “The residual medical expenses are fairly heavy, as you know, even with Medicare and all that. But most of it will be covered by life insurance and personal savings. You’ll also have enough to take care of the funeral expenses, which is great since they’re considerable.”

Sheila shook her head.
Vultures.
She found it appalling the way most people started in the world with nothing and ended with nothing. It almost seemed there was a system in place to make sure this happened. Her parents had worked hard all their lives, and in the end they had very little to show for it. It was as if they’d never existed.

“They did have some investments, which you are aware of. I know you’ve been managing them for the last few months, since your mama gave you control over her assets.”

Sheila remembered the conversation, one of the last they’d had in the house. Her mother struggled to get from her bedroom on the first floor
 
—which had originally been a sitting room until she could no longer climb the stairs
 
—to the kitchen. They’d always had money discussions at the kitchen table for some reason. And there, with that accursed oxygen mask strapped to her face, her mother had announced, in a
typically straightforward manner, that Sheila was being given control of all her worldly possessions. “You’re going to get all of it in the end anyway,” she said. “What’s the difference?”

“Does this look right to you?” Moore asked, passing over a summary sheet. Sheila studied it briefly and saw that the bottom-line figure matched the one she’d calculated recently. Midrange five digits.

“Yes, this is correct.”

“Good. As for the house, I’m sure you also know that the mortgage has been paid in full.”

“In November of ’92.”

One of the proudest days of her parents’ lives. Her father had been the first one in his family to own land in America. He was only the second generation born here, his grandparents having come from Europe in the late 1800s. He and Margaret had scrimped, scratched, saved, and sacrificed to cover each payment. When the day finally came to make the last one, he put on his best suit and personally brought the check to the bank. When he left, he was walking on a cloud. The happy couple treated themselves to dinner that night, then a new car
 
—another first in Baker history.

“And you probably realize the house has appreciated considerably since it was first purchased.”

“Yes, I figured as much.” Sheila was uncomfortable talking about this. It was her parents’ home, not hers. She grew up in it, and she had plenty of happy memories. But the idea of profiting from their deaths was difficult to stomach. She knew her parents would want her to have the money and to use it for the betterment of her own life. Still . . .

“Do you think you’d like to sell the property?” Moore asked.

“Hmm? Oh, maybe. I don’t know yet.”

“Well, don’t sit on it too long. You still have to pay the taxes, and they’re pretty heavy now. This area has really built up in the last twenty years.”

“I know.”

“If you sell the property, you could put the money into those gyms of yours.” Moore smiled. “You appear to be doing quite well with them already.”

“Thanks. We’ll see.”

“Right now, the house is nothing but a cash drain.”

“I know. I’ll figure something out.”

“I’d be happy to help you with whatever you decide,” he went on. “I have some experience with investments and wouldn’t want to see you tread those waters without a guide.”

“Okay.”

She was ready to change the subject again. She looked down at the little notepad she’d brought along. It had a list of things they needed to go over
 
—terms of the will, the stocks and bonds, the house, the remaining debts. It appeared as though everything had been covered. She glanced at her watch and realized nearly an hour had passed. It seemed more like ten minutes. She had no desire to get back to the house
 
—the next project was sorting through Mom’s things. That would be painful.

There were plenty of papers for Sheila to sign, which she did after reviewing each one briefly. Nothing new, nothing suspicious. Moore had done an immaculate job of protecting her family from legal nonsense. As she wrote her name over and over, she wondered what the odds were of finding a lawyer of his quality back home in Dearborn, someone she could trust implicitly.

After she signed the last sheet, she handed it back and said, “Well, I guess that’s it.” She got up and slipped her bag
over her shoulder. “Mr. Moore, I want to thank you again for everything. You have really made
 
—”

Moore cut her off by holding up a finger. “Wait . . . there’s one other thing.”

“One other thing?”

“Yes. Please, sit back down a moment.”

As she sank into the chair again, she noticed his manner had changed. Gone was the air of grandfatherly warmth, replaced by a mild unease that appeared as though it could shift into full-blown angst without much provocation.

“Is something wrong?”

He was pulling open the top drawer when he stopped to consider the question. “Well, I don’t know.” He took out a standard-size envelope that had gone yellow over time but otherwise appeared to be in excellent condition. There was nothing written on the front.

He slit the top with a silver opener and turned it over. A small key dropped into his hand.

“This key has been in this envelope since April of 1976. I know because I was the one who put it in there. I remember the day quite well, in fact. It wasn’t particularly cold, and yet when your mama came in that afternoon, she was shivering.”

“I don’t understand. What does this have to do wi
 
—?”

“The key is hers.”

Sheila searched her memory for anything in the house that had a lock but no key. There was a safe in the cellar, but it had a combination dial. There was also a small box of keepsakes in the upstairs bedroom
 
—photos, notes, etc.
 
—but the lock on it hadn’t worked in ages.

“I can’t think of anything that requires such a key.”

“It’s for a safe-deposit box.”

“A safe-deposit box?”

“Yes, right here in Dallas.”

“I didn’t even know my parents had one.”

“
They
didn’t. Just your mama.”

“What?”

Moore nodded. “That’s right.”

Her first thought was that he was mistaken. Her parents did everything together
 
—
everything
. Sheila wasn’t so naive to think that married couples, regardless of how devoted they might be to each other, didn’t retain a few secrets. But not something like this.

“My dad knew about it, didn’t he?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. If he did know, I’m sure he would’ve said something to me. But he never did. The box was opened and managed by my firm. It still is, technically. But it was for your mama.”

“She didn’t have it in her name?”

“No, she wanted it in ours. She was very insistent about that.”

“Do you know what’s in it?”

“No idea.” Moore set the key down. “She came in and said she wanted to open a safe-deposit box at Texas First National.”

“First National? That’s not where they did their banking.”

“I know, but I didn’t feel it was my place to ask about that. Also, quite honestly, I didn’t feel she’d give up much information even if I did ask. Many of my clients have asked my advice on what should be put into a safe-deposit box. You know
 
—wills, stock certificates, things like that. I just assumed it was something of that nature.”

Her parents had all that kind of paperwork, but they’d
kept it either in Moore’s office or in the basement safe at home.
So what did she need a box for?
Wild, utterly ridiculous ideas began rolling out of her imagination
 
—
Letters from an old lover? The birth certificate of a child given up for adoption?

Then came the echo of her mother’s voice
 
—
“I’m sorry for this burden that I’m leaving you. I’m so sorry. . . .”

“I did ask her why she didn’t just go down and open it herself,” Moore continued, “and she said she couldn’t tell me. That’s when I realized she was scared. I mean,
really
scared. I asked her if she was okay, and she said yes. But she wasn’t being honest. Lawyers know how to read people, you know, and your mama had the weight of the world on her shoulders that day. I never saw her like that before.”

“Did she have anything with her? Anything that she wanted to put into it?”

“No. She had a coat, gloves, and her bag. That’s it. I saw nothing, and she showed me nothing.”

Sheila began to experience a feeling of dreamy disorientation. She looked toward the old windows with their cracked paint and smudgy panes. The Piedmont Building was visible on the other side. There was also the usual cacophony of street noise drifting up from below.

“All these years, and she never told anyone.”

“It appears that way,” Moore said.

“How often did she go to it?”

“Just once.”

“Once?”

“Yes. The day after I opened it for her. That was the only time in nearly forty years.”

A moment of unearthly quiet hung between them while Sheila tried to find a place for this information in her mind. “Forty years,” she repeated.

“This burden . . .”

“Yes. Aside from that, she came here annually to give me the money for the fee. It was always in cash. She asked me not to tell anyone about it until after her death. And when that time came, I was to give this key
 
—” he held it up
 
—“to your father. And if he was gone, then to you.”

“This burden that I’m leaving you . . .”

“So now I fulfill this final request.” He leaned over and passed it to Sheila, who appraised it as though she’d never seen a key before.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been curious about what’s in there. Giving that key to you constitutes the longest piece of unfinished business I’ve had in my practice. I’ve often wondered if I would even get to do it. I’m not exactly a teenager anymore. And there were days when I thought maybe your mother would just close the box and that would be the end of it. Then again, I’m not all that surprised. You had to see her that day, Sheila. As the saying goes, you had to be there.”

She shook her head.
My mother, scared? To the point where she would do something like this without telling anyone? Even Dad?

“. . . probably hidden somewhere in the house,” Moore was saying.

“I’m sorry; what was that?”

“I said the other key,
her
key
 
—the bank issues two for each box holder
 
—is probably hidden somewhere in the house.”

“Oh . . . yeah, probably.”

“Anyway, that takes care of that.”

He rose from behind the desk, came around, and sat on the corner of it. “Listen, I don’t know what’s in there. But whatever it is, if you need me for anything further, I want you to call right away. Okay? Promise?”

Still half-dazed, Sheila nodded. Later, she would barely remember shaking Henry Moore’s hand and walking out of his office. By the time she reached her car, an unshakable feeling was beginning to race through her
 
—that whatever was waiting in that box would likely require more than just the services of a lawyer.