Man in the Middle (3 page)

Immediately, the man grew nervous and apologetic—even seemed surprised that what he had done might be interpreted as inappropriate. He said he did these things with the best of intentions. He had promised Hannah, he said, to help Peter if anything ever happened to her. He was, he reminded Peter, a link to the past. Practically family.

“I swear to God,” Ayers continued, “I never meant to upset you. I did-n’t know any other way to keep my promise to Hannah.”

One after another, the rationalizations flowed as if Ayers hoped one or two—like argument spaghetti thrown against Peter’s brain—might find their mark and stick. As he listened, Peter’s emotions ran the gamut from pissed-off at the invasion of his privacy to pity over the neediness in Ayers’ pleas. In the end, Peter went with sympathy. He reminded himself of his and his mother’s debt to Ayers. That damn debt.

“Would you like to learn to trade stocks, bonds, currencies?” Ayers asked, sounding hopeful. “You’d work for—”

“I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Ayers, but it’s not something I’m interested in.”

“Stenman Partners is a hedge fund. They manage billions of dollars,” Ayers continued as if Peter had said nothing. “I am their counsel. They would hire you in a minute on my recommendation.” He explained that Peter had a lot going for him: he did well at UCLA, was good looking and athletic, and people gravitated to him. “All you’ve lacked is motivation.”

“You mean to make money?” Peter asked.

“I know it sounds crass, but yes. By the time you’re thirty, you could be making more money than you ever dreamed—”

“Not now, Mr. Ayers. But thanks anyway.”

Ayers tried several more times, unsuccessfully, to sell Peter, then said, “There must be something I can do.”

Partly to calm Ayers, partly to address some leftover questions he had about events just prior to his mother’s death six days ago, Peter said, “Maybe you can help explain a few things to me.”

Ayers’ head lifted. “I’ll try.”

“The morning Mom died, she came to see me at work. She seemed disturbed.”

Ayers looked away. “About what?”

“The explosion in La Jolla. She said she knew that man Cannodine at Jackson Securities. When I asked, she seemed frightened and evasive. Was that related to your law firm?”

Ayers made a twitch-like nod. Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers, he confessed, handled legal affairs, on a retainer basis, for Jackson Securities. He and Hannah met with Cannodine a couple of times.

“That explains how she knew he had young children.”

“Yes. Mr. Cannodine had pictures of the kids and spoke of them.”

“She felt sad, knowing his kids would suffer. She also said the others who died weren’t guilty of anything. Do you know what she meant by that?” It was highly unusual for his mother to hide things from him, but when they had met that morning, she seemed evasive. She had also been nervous and near tears, and all he gave her were five minutes on his way into work. He should have done more—at least had a cup of coffee with her. He now hoped Ayers might throw him a bone of understanding, something to hold onto that might explain her unusual behavior. In his desire to hear something new, Peter didn’t notice Ayers’ face turn even more ashen.

Ayers shook his head. “I don’t know what she might have meant, other than the obvious: a number of coworkers died with Mr. Cannodine.” With an escalating voice, he continued: “Did she say anything else? Think, Peter! I need to know.”

Ayers’ passion startled Peter. He paused, shook his head, then said, “Some of your clients upset her. I think she meant this Cannodine guy, but Mom wasn’t specific.”

“Did she mention anyone by name? Or say what Cannodine had done?” Ayers’ hands massaged his brow as if he might erase wrinkles or tear skin in the process.

“No, but she did say lawyers represent . . . what was it?” Peter closed his eyes and replayed the meeting. His mother had surprised him outside his office only minutes after he’d first heard about the Jackson Securities tragedy on his car radio. She huddled under a stairwell in the shadows, shivering despite heated Santa Ana winds blowing south from Los Angeles.

As Peter reassembled that last conversation, he continued: “Clients, she said, did evil things—she used the word ‘egregious’—and, despite that, attorneys acted as their advocates.”

Ayers claimed to have no idea what Hannah meant. When it seemed the conversation had run its course, Peter made a show of looking at his watch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ayers, but I need to get ready to go. I have a meeting with the attorney who handled Mom’s finances.”

Peter herded Ayers to the front door. Before leaving, Ayers begged one last time. “Please, Peter, consider the job offer. If you don’t let me help, I won’t survive.”

Tired of the topic, Peter said he’d think it over. With that, the melodrama thankfully ended, and Ayers retreated back inside the shell he’d carried through the front door an hour earlier. Though Peter knew Ayers was upset, something beyond sadness hung in his eyes. Adding to the mystery of the last hour, Peter wanted to know: what did helping him find a job have to do with survival?

An hour later, the strange meeting with Ayers still kicked around the back of Peter’s mind as he drove to meet his mother’s financial attorney. The lack of information coming from Ayers had added to his confusion. Too much about the day his mother died remained a mystery. That an off-duty cop witnessed the crash and provided details—“she drove too fast . . . hit a piling . . . the car burst into flames . . . death came instantaneously”—provided little insight. Was his mother simply upset with work? Was that why she drove so recklessly? That didn’t seem possible. Was there more to the connection with Cannodine and Jackson Securities? If so, why had Ayers downplayed matters? Peter worked through the details but got nowhere.

For one of the few times in his life, Peter had an overwhelming desire to open up to someone. But he couldn’t push a nonexistent button. The Neils had been independent to the point of stubbornness, especially Peter’s father. The elder Neil had kept his feelings private, unwilling to burden friends. It became a family trait.

At the thought of his father, Peter reached into his pocket and felt the face of his moonstone—a gift from Matthew Neil fifteen years ago. The white gem, his father had told him, could relieve all anxiety if one passed a thumb over its smooth face. Peter believed him and rubbed whenever tense. Like now.

Moving along the packed interstate at a breakneck five miles per hour, and ignoring the knocking sounds of his multi-injured VW Jetta, Peter replayed his concerns. He remained puzzled over what he’d seen the day of his mother’s death, on his first trip back to his childhood home to rescue her pet cat—a familiar twenty-minute drive south on Interstate 5 and east on Balboa Avenue. The route took him past the baseball fields where his father had coached him for nine years. Cattycorner to Peter’s final turn, he viewed the high school track where he had starred as a middle-distance runner. He next passed the home of a best friend from childhood, long ago abandoned in a move to a more prestigious address.

Similar to most homes in the suburb of Clairemont, the Neils owned a single-story stucco on a cramped eighth of an acre. Two blocks away, furious traffic burdened the city’s main streets while strip malls and fast food restaurants ran in unbroken lines for blocks, and groves of signposts outnumbered trees ten to one.
Modest
was the best way to describe this northeast corner of San Diego. Matthew and Hannah Neil had bought the home twenty-five years ago. Back then, young families populated the neighborhood. In the Neils’ household, there was enough roughhousing to raise the roof, but the roof hadn’t been raised since Matthew Neil had died. As he neared his destination, Peter felt anxious. Could he stomach entering the house, he wondered, knowing it was no longer anyone’s home?

Peter parked at the curb and approached through the front-yard just as a dark sedan drifted past, speeding up slightly when he absently looked up and over. A half step later, a dry leaf crunched underfoot, directing his attention to the walkway, now cracked where tree roots had worked their way underneath. Alongside the sidewalk, the sparse lawn had turned to rust brown, a victim of ongoing water shortages in Southern California. A local evening paper—dated the previous night, the night his mother died—rested atop the steps leading to the porch. Peter recalled reaching down and picking it up.
Odd
, he had thought. His mother always retrieved her paper when she came home from work at six o’clock. The police officer said the accident occurred around half past nine in the city of Carlsbad, twenty minutes north and west of Clairemont and thirty-five minutes north of downtown San Diego, where she worked. Where was she headed that night? She never went out late, and, as far as Peter knew, she didn’t have any friends in that part of North County. Had she worked longer than normal hours? Had she met with someone? If so, was there a person who might share a last conversation? Peter had a deep longing to know these things.

He had entered the house through the front door. Henry immediately bounded over, then snaked his way in and out of Peter’s legs, rubbing calico fur against his jeans. The animal purred like a small engine.

“You’re scared, aren’t you, Henry?” Peter asked.

With the blinds drawn, the entranceway was dusk-dark. He looked over to the living room and the oak floors, chipped and dented with nearly three decades of hard-use. The area rugs had worn spots at their edges, and the house smelled musty. Surveying the rest of the room, he noted a pile of papers, threatening to spill off the cedar work desk. Peter went over and opened the top drawer. It was empty. He wondered if his mother was looking for something and dumped out the contents. Another strange thing: the computer was turned on, the screensaver dancing with floating checkerboards. When he slid the mouse, his mother’s file window popped up. After shutting down the computer, he had considered taking a tour of the house—his old room, the den, his mother’s bedroom—but decided to wait for another day. He felt too drained to weather the sadness.

He noticed a flashing light on the answering machine, which sat on the window ledge separating the kitchen from the dining area. He shuffled over and hit
play
. The machine-voice announced there were seven messages. The first message came in at 6:03 p.m. That call began and ended with a hang-up. The other six messages ended similarly, except for the third call, where a hoarse male voice pleaded: “Please pick up.” The steady flow of calls, the last coming at 11:04 p.m., confirmed his mother had not made a stop home before driving to Carlsbad.

With Henry standing alongside his empty food bowl, Peter realized the animal hadn’t been fed the previous night—another unsettling curiosity. His mother went out of her way to take care of her pet, and not coming home—at least long enough to feed Henry—was unprecedented. It also meant the computer had been left on that morning. None of this made sense, then or now. His mother rarely forgot even small tasks.

From a hook near the phone, Peter remembered retrieving a set of keys. One was an extra to his mother’s destroyed Subaru. The other key, undersized, looked like a bicycle-lock key with a round, nondescript insignia and some kind of numerical code stamped across its face. Peter removed the smaller key and slid it onto his key chain. One day, he suspected, he would discover whatever the key unlocked—maybe some trinkets or memories locked in a drawer or a box somewhere in the house.

He next fed Henry, gathered up the animal’s bed, litter box, dishes, and food, and put them in several grocery bags. Scooping up the cat with his free hand, he left. Peter loved this house, but he had driven away without a look back.

On the lengthy drive to Smitham and Jones, Estate Attorneys, Peter had too many questions and too few answers. Arriving at the Solana Beach law office, Peter put these concerns on temporary hold. Jerome Smitham had said certain matters needed to be decided sooner, rather than later. The man’s concerned tone of voice had made it clear: there were unpleasant, pressing financial issues. Time to address a whole new set of problems.

Peter entered and the receptionist immediately escorted him to Smitham’s office. In his sixties, the attorney, at six foot-six inches, resembled a preying mantis, his skin taut like pulled taffy, and his joints sharp and severely angled. He also jittered like a man who had inhaled five cups of house-blend. Hound-dog eyes, however, gave his face a sympathetic look.