Hidden River (Five Star Paperback) (12 page)

“One of the brothers. Maybe both, I don’t know. The point is, they’re wealthy, but not wealthy enough. But that’s fine, you see, because obviously they began tapping the CAW accounts, get it? You see what I am saying?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Klimmer, but I don’t see. Who’s Houghton? What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You should pay attention then. It’s ok for Charles or Robert to take money from the CAW account for purposes related to the organization, but those sums have to be itemized, accounted for. CAW is a charity, not a slush fund. The thing is, these payments didn’t show up in the accounts. Money had been withdrawn and not entered as expenditure and, worse, it had been paid not to an institution but to an individual named Houghton. Victoria tracked the payments over two years. It was more than a million dollars. It worried her. She came to me, I was her boss.”

“What did you do?”

“I told her to forget it. I told her it was none of her business. I told her it was none of our business. That CAW was Charles and Robert Mulholland’s baby and if they wanted to pay their contractor or their fucking driver or gay lover or whatever out of CAW money, it didn’t matter. I said that she was very young, and she had a lot to learn and she should concentrate on her job and forget she ever saw those payments. I meant it too, I was only looking out for her.”

“What did she do then?”

“She took my advice. She took no further action, but Victoria was a smart girl and she wanted to protect herself.”

“How?”

“She said she was going to keep a journal so that if we ever got audited or investigated she’d be in the clear.”

“What did you say to that?”

“I hit the ceiling. I told her that she couldn’t leave a paper trail, that that was how they fucking got Nixon.”

“And what did she say?” I asked.

“She told me it was the only way she could stay at CAW,” Klimmer said sorrowfully.

“And you wanted her to stay, you liked her, you liked her very much.”

“I wanted her to stay. I said fine, keep your journal, but not on paper, encrypt it on your computer and leave me out of it and never mention it to me or anyone else again.”

“And what then?”

“She was murdered,” Klimmer said, fear creeping into his voice and eyes.

“That doesn’t prove Charles or Robert did it,” I said.

“Don’t you listen? Only Charles, Robert, and myself had access to her office.”

“The cleaning lady? The secretaries. The sandwich delivery boy. I’m sure there were more people in her office than that.”

“Yeah, sure, the sandwich boy did it, Mrs. Mulholland did it when she was playing secret Santa. The electrician fixing the lights decided to risk his job, break into a stranger’s computer, read Victoria’s journal, brutally kill her, and frame a Mexican for it. Listen to me, you idiot. Only Charles and Robert had access to the private bank account records. Only Charles and Robert could have accessed her computer journal. Don’t you see?”

“Frankly, I don’t,” I said.

Klimmer pursed his lips, bit his tongue, stood, sat down again. He was exasperated. Angry.

“Why can’t you understand this? Whatever brother was making the payments must have noticed that someone had been looking into the private bank account. I don’t know, an access log, a trace back. In any case, it could only have been Victoria. He must have found that she’d been looking at the account, checked her computer, and then discovered her journal. Killed her. Fraud on this level would mean jail time, public disgrace.”

“I don’t know, it’s not enough to kill someone,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I thought so too for a while. For a couple of days, I almost believed that cock-and-bull story about the break-in at Victoria’s place. That is, until Alan Houghton disappeared. And Alan Houghton, my dear Mr. Jones, was the man who was receiving the payments, the one getting the money from the secret account. The police found his car abandoned near Lookout Mountain. It was on the local news. I remembered the name. He’s vanished off the face of the Earth. Call the cops if you don’t believe me. Missing persons. Never find him, know why? Because he’s dead. Do you see now, the man who killed Victoria killed him, too. Don’t you see that that’s why Victoria had to die? Because Alan Houghton’s murder had already been planned. He disappeared the same night Victoria was killed.”

“It’s possible,” I said, and nodded. Klimmer had been clever. Maybe he was right. This Houghton person was getting payments from one or perhaps both of the brothers. Blackmailing them? A million dollars. That’s not nothing. Maybe the demands were going up. The murderer had had enough. He had been getting ready to kill him. He had already planned out Houghton’s whole death. But then Victoria had been put in charge of closing the bank accounts. She had found out about the illegal payments. The killer discovered that someone had seen the secret accounts, reckoned it was Victoria, checked her computer. Made a decision.

I would have to check out who Alan Houghton was and whether he had really disappeared. If there actually was a missing persons report. If so, things might be fitting nicely into place. Perhaps whichever brother did it had left some physical evidence at the murder scene, or perhaps at Alan Houghton’s house. The police could find out. Undoubtedly, the killer would have swept his trail, destroyed Victoria’s computer, wiped the accounts evidence, scoured Houghton’s apartment, but there might be something left. The police would need some convincing that they had arrested the wrong man, that the real killer was a respected and influential member of the community, but Klimmer was a convincing person. He had convinced me.

“What happened to Victoria’s computer?”

“Oh, it disappeared, believe me, I looked, I was told it had probably been sent back for repairs. Likely story.”

“But you said Victoria’s computer journal was encrypted, how could they have broken the encryption?”

“I don’t know, both brothers went to Harvard, they’re sharp, I really don’t know. Victoria told me she had encrypted the files herself, maybe she did it wrong.”

“Maybe she did it right, the brothers never found out about her, and she was killed for some other reason,” John said.

“Maybe a million things, I’m telling you what I know, someone killed her and I think I know who,” Klimmer said angrily. A tic in his left eye now. He fought it down.

I needed him to be a lot calmer. I needed him to come with me to the police station. We had to get him there while he was in a cooperative mood. Tonight, tomorrow, soon. Perhaps we could have this wrapped up quicker than any of us hoped.

The killer had undoubtedly been clever but had already made one dreadful mistake. He had completely discounted the possibility that Victoria had told someone of her suspicions, assuming she had not. But how could he have been so sure of her? He must have known her intimately. Maybe, despite what Klimmer said, he’d even been having an affair with her. So why not try and buy her off? Why resort to murder? No, he’d known Victoria was not the type. And he was putting a stop to the rot, ending the blackmail. He couldn’t afford to have around someone else who knew—someone who could start the blackmail again. And he couldn’t set her up as a fall guy, he didn’t want her speaking, telling her side. She had to be got rid of. Doubling her salary and posting her to South America wouldn’t work. He knew Victoria and he knew if ever she was asked, she would tell the truth. That was my girl, honest, smart, beautiful. He had seen all that and had chosen to end her life.

“Tell me about Charles and Robert Mulholland,” I said.

“They both have doctorates in some pointless social science thing, Charles has a law degree. Grew up rich in Boulder. Robert never had a proper job. Never worked a day in his life. Charles became an attorney with Cutter and May. A firm here. He worked in environmental law. They both wrote for those magazines, you know,
Commentary, The National Review,
that kind of paper. One of them had a brainchild to found an environmental group, get start-up dough from Daddy, I told you this before—”

“Tell me again, please.”

“Ok, so they set up CAW. Charles got made partner at Cutter and May and when CAW really started to take off, everyone benefited. I believe they have political ambitions. That’s why we’re moving the office to Denver, plus Daddy has remarried, so who knows, maybe they’re worried about the will,” Klimmer said with a leer, wiping brandy off his thin lips with a big clumsy paw.

“How long have you worked for them?” I asked.

Klimmer drank some more of his brandy, went to the kitchen, crashed something down on a tabletop, groaned, came back with the bottle.

“You know what I think?” he said.

“What?”

“I think I’m done with these fucking stupid questions, that’s what I think,” he said bellicosely.

“Well, Mr. Klimmer, don’t get—”

“I think I’ve told you more than enough, in fact, I’ve told you far too much,” he said loudly.

I nodded.

“Mr. Klimmer, you have been very cooperative and I’m very grateful. I, I suspect we’ll just have to do this one more time.”

“No more times,” Klimmer said, laughing, slurring his words. He sat down heavily, dropped the bottle, brandy spilling everywhere.

“Mr. Klimmer, you know we’re going to have to go to the police with this information,” I said.

“Go, I don’t care, I’ll deny everything. I’ll deny I ever saw you. Margaret was on lunch, she can’t back up your story, you were never at CAW today. You never came here. Don’t you see, if he can kill Victoria and Houghton he can kill me.”

“No, the police will protect you.”

“The police. The police can’t do anything. I don’t know what I was thinking. I never told you anything. I never saw you. I never fucking saw you,” he said, raising his voice and gripping the sides of his chair. He pointed his finger at me and shook his head.

“Ok, Mr. Klimmer, well, look, I think we’ll go, we’ll discuss this tomorrow,” I began.

“We’re discussing nothing tomorrow, I make a huge mistake, I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought I wanted someone to come looking for me, but I was wrong. Goddamnit, you tricked me, you tricked me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I invented the whole thing. No, I never saw you.”

“Mr. Klimmer—”

“You weren’t here, you made it all up,” Klimmer said, angrily, on the verge of hysteria. It was time to leave, we had to let him calm down. I gave John the nod.

John tried to get up.

“Where are you going?” Klimmer said, furiously, “what are you doing? I’m not going with you. Sit down, sit down, I tell you.”

Klimmer was right on the edge. We had pushed it too far. Shouldn’t have come here again today. This was a catch to be taken easy, on a light line, not brutally hauled in. Tomorrow morning, the three of us walking to the police station together. Bad call hounding him again today.

Klimmer got up and backed away from us. He was furious. He looked unhinged. More than just the drink. He slapped himself on the face. Made a fist. John was standing right next to him on the balcony. Three chairs, me and two big guys, we could barely fit at the best of times. Now, with all of us standing, it was crowded, horribly tense.

“Back off,” he shouted at John. “I’m not going with you.”

“Calm down, mate, we’re leaving you alone, we’re not touching you,” John said.

“I don’t know who you are, leave me alone,” Klimmer said, his body shaking with fury. Was he drunk? Was he having a breakdown? All those pent-up weeks, knowing what he knew, and now it was released. Now it was all coming out, his anger, his fear, his love for the dead girl. His fury at the spoiled rich kid who had killed her. And it was John and me who had stirred these emotions in him. Somehow we were the enemy.

The veins throbbed in his head, his pale skin had turned red.

“Leave me alone,” he yelled at John, standing a few inches from him, his face almost up against John’s.

“Steady on, mate,” John said.

“Everything’s fine,” I assured him.

But his eyes were wild. His cheeks crimson, then white, then ashen. He bit his lip. He bit it until it bled.

“Get out, get out, both of you, I don’t know anything.”

“We’re leaving,” I said, and started backing away, except there was nowhere to back to.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Klimmer said.

“It’s ok, everything’s fine,” I said. “Come on, John, we’re leaving.”

“Go, leave, now,” Klimmer said.

John turned his back and began squeezing past the chair, trying to go back into the living room. Klimmer shoved him. John grabbed Klimmer’s hand. Klimmer shoved him again.

It all happened in slow motion now. Time paused on its journey to eternity. I don’t know what John was doing. Steadying himself? Shoving Klimmer back? What did Klimmer think? That John was trying to grab him, trying to wrestle him to the ground as a precursor to frog-marching him to the police station? He punched John, hit him in the throat, started shoving him back into the seat, John reacted violently, pushed Klimmer away from him. Klimmer snarled, went for John again, grabbed at his collar, John pushed Klimmer off him. Harder this time. Cop fashion. Aggressive. John had big shoulders. Klimmer was all height, but John had bulk, too. The balcony was very narrow. Too crowded. Klimmer six-five, six-six, with that high center of gravity. The rail came up only to the top of his hips. I could see it before it happened. I reached out my hand.

Klimmer stumbled. The momentum carried him into and onto the balcony rail. He toppled backward, lay horizontal on the rail for a fraction of a second.

“John,” I said in a frozen whisper.

Klimmer clawed the air. John made a grab for him but Klimmer had lost his balance, the momentum carrying him tumbling over the balcony. He fell at a rate of thirty-two feet per second per second, his eyes stunned, his mouth open, his voice gone. He had, perhaps, a second to prepare himself. He landed on his feet but his femurs burst out through his knees. His internal organs smashed into one another. Parts of his brain liquefied inside his skull. The body snapped and crumpled sickeningly on the concrete path. He died instantly without uttering a sound.