Money To Burn (20 page)

After a long conversation with the gate guard, I felt better. They promised to patrol the grounds and have two guards monitoring the video surveillance cameras twenty- four hours a day. For now, at least, Lydia Talbot would be safe.

An hour and many other phone calls later, I reached the reluctant conclusion that I badly needed to upgrade my stable of men. I couldn’t find a damn person to escort me to the over-the-hill debutante ball. Jack pleaded poverty; he had to work. He suggested his red-headed friend, but I’d never be that desperate. Once a person has been designated as a one-night stand, it’s too tough to recast them for an encore.

Attempted calls to other male friends were met with either a no answer or an outgoing message saying they were on vacation until the end of August. What the hell, did they think this was Paris?

I finally reached a gay doctor I knew, but not even begging could convince him to hobnob with the society crowd at Lydia’s ball. He was a plastic surgeon and said he’d run into too many of his patients there.

As a last resort, I called Doodle, my fireman ex with the cracker-hating mama. He thought I was crazy to even suggest it.

“What in the flapdoodle have you been smoking, girl?” he asked. “You want an escort so you’ll fit in, so you’re going to show up with a six-foot-four black man at an all-white event? People would be asking me to refresh their drinks and shit all night long. You must be desperate.”

Great. Now I’d humiliated myself in front of an ex- boyfriend by making it plain I could not find a date even if I pleaded for one.

Burly Nash popped into my mind, as he had been every ten minutes or so since I’d met him earlier that afternoon. No contest that he’d look great in a tuxedo with that dark hair of his. But his wheelchair posed a small problem, investigational ethics aside. If I needed help or backup, he’d be neither.

In the end, I decided to borrow an escort from Bobby D., preferably someone with bodyguarding experience. I knew two other private detectives in Raleigh and was unwilling to be seen in public with either. Maybe Bobby would have a colleague who could pass for civilized.

I spent the rest of my Friday night reading “Car & Driver,” then called him at home just past midnight, when I knew he’d be back from his gay bar surveillance gig. He answered the phone, huffing and puffing like the little engine that could.

“One of those transsexuals give you a ride for your money?” I asked.

“Har-har,” he answered back good-naturedly. “More like I was giving my king-sized waterbed a workout with an understanding little lady. Just affirming my heterosexuality after my walk on the wild side. Know what I mean?”

Yeah, I knew what he meant. My memory wasn’t that bad.

I heard feminine giggling and Elvis crooning in the background. But I wasn’t anxious for the logistical details. I’d gotten a peek at Bobby’s bedroom once and had wondered ever since how the waterbed supported his weight and withstood all that sweaty action. It had to be like the tropics inside that bed. There was probably an entire eco-system

thriving in his mattress, sea monkeys and all.

“Can you dredge up an escort for me?” I begged. “This is an emergency.” I explained why it was imperative that Mr. Dream Date have a tuxedo.

“No problem-o, babe,” he said at once. “I’ll escort you myself. I’ve been wanting to get a peek at one of them debutante balls for years.”

“Forget it,” I said. “I don’t want anyone thinking we’re an item, not even strangers.”

“Fine,” he said cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ll come up with someone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a little project I’d like to finish.”

“Oh, all right,” I agreed crossly. “You’re on. But you better wear a tuxedo.”

“No problem-o,” he promised. “I’ve got that James Bond thing going, you know. My tux is always at the ready.”

James Bond? Hardly. The closest he came was to look like Odd Job with a bad toupee. “For godsakes,” I added. “Do something with that toupee of yours. It looks like a raccoon died on your head.”

“I’ll forgive you that slur on my manhood,” he answered in a dignified voice. “But for your information, you are speaking of my hair, not a toupee.”

“It’s only your hair because y Cairor=“blackou bought it,” I retorted.

“If you’re going to be a world-class bitch about this,” he said calmly. “You can go rent a male escort for the evening.”

“Okay, okay,” I said grumpily, wondering myself where all my antagonism was coming from. Annoyance was bubbling from me like lava from an incipient volcano. “It’s a deal.”

“You mean, ‘It’s a date,’” he pointed out with a greasy chuckle.

“Whatever,” I grumbled and hung up.

To tell you the truth, I felt like pulling the draperies from my windows, kicking a dog, pinching a small child or smashing a few plates for fun. And it had nothing to do with Bobby D. What the hell was my problem? I sat at my kitchen table, staring out at my tiny backyard. Fireflies flitted in the shadows, their pinpoints of light dotting the darkness. I used to like spending Friday nights alone. It beat fighting the date-night crowds. But tonight had sucked.

The problem, I realized, was that there was no one in my life willing to escort me, at least no one I wanted to go with. Because the person I really wanted to go with was still a stranger, scared the hell out of me—and could not even walk. 

The next morning, I worked off my hormonal frustration by lifting weights until my muscles burned. Then I showered and dressed like a candidate for Mormon momhood before I headed out to Brightleaf Square and the offices of Harry Ingram, attorney-at-law. It always helps to look respectable when you’re trying to convince a person to act unethically. I learned that by watching lobbyists in Washington on CNN.

I arrived at his office closer to eleven o’clock than ten, and realized I’d have to hurry to get to Lydia by early afternoon. Despite the fact that it was Saturday, one of those leathery, alarmingly tanned and, I always imagine, gin-swilling women of an indeterminate age was holding down the reception desk. She gave me a professional smile, but I could see the cash register toting up behind her alert eyes. She’d pegged me as a potential client. I wasn’t obviously limping or in pain, but maybe, God willing, I was rotting inside and they’d be able to sue the bejesus out of someone.

“I’m a private investigator here to see Harry Ingram,” I explained, dashing her hopes. “About Thomas Nash. My name is Casey Jones.”

“Casey Jones?” she asked, her carefully plucked eyebrows scrunching up quizzically. “That name sounds familiar.” She stared at me. “Wasn’t your daddy famous or something?”

“He was a railroad engineer,” I said solemnly—and she believed me.

A few swift punches of the intercom buttons later and I was sitting in a comfortable leather chair across the desk from Harry Ingram, Esquire.

He was the jolliest lawyer I had ever encountered, all round and quivering and cordial. I expected him to burst into a chorus of “I Love To Laugh” at any moment and float toward the ceiling. He was pudgy, with rapidly thinning hair that had been combed together into one dashing swirl at the center of his forehead. It made him look like Mr. Tastee Freeze in a suit. He wore a beautifully cut dark suit over a professionally laundered white shirt. This meticulous outfit was set off by several heavy gold rings and a thick necklace. There aren’t a lot of guys running around wearing gold chains in the South, except for the Italian imports. But for Harry Ingram, it worked. He looked like a prosperous pasha who had decided to dabble in the law just for something to do while he rested in between bouts with his harem.

“How can I help you?” he asked expansively, gallantly leading me to a chair.

“Thanks for seeing me. I understand you were Tom Nash’s lawyer?”

“I served as his lawyer in a specific civil matter,” he explained gravely. “Regarding libel and harassment matters. I understand he had other lawsuits pending that involved patent royalties, but that sort of thing requires a specialist. I am strictly a personal-injury-related lawyer.” In other words, he was a high-class ambulance chaser.

“That’s okay,” I assured him. “I really only need your help with details on who may have been harassing Nash before he died. There seems to be a general consensus that the same person may be responsible for his death. And that this person may have been Randolph Talbot.”

He eyes widened. “Indeed? That is interesting news, indeed.” He drummed his carefully manicured hands on the desktop. They were soft and pudgy. “There are limits to what I can reveal,” he said somewhat apologetically.

“Your client is dead. Surely attorney-client privilege can be waived.”

He stared at me for a moment, thinking. “Who did you say hired you?”

It was my turn to apologize. “I didn’t.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “His brother, I expect.”

I shrugged. “Can you help?”

He pursed his lips and stared off into the distance, weighing the moral implications of what I had requested. “I don’t break attorney-client privilege,” he said. “It’s problematic.”

“Look, it’s an old case. The client is dead.”

“That’s not entirely true,” he countered.

“Tom Nash isn’t dead?” I asked incredulously.

He laughed quietly, as if I amused him too much for words. “It’s not entirely true that it’s an old case.”

“What can you say?” I asked. If he wanted to split hairs, fine. Maybe it wasn’t an old case. But it sure as hell was a defunct one.

“It’s unusual circumstances. Perhaps I could make an exception,” he mused, his voice trailing off. He reached a decision. “All right. I’ll tell you what I know. In general terms only, however. I must be careful, you understand.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “Generalize away.” I hadn’t expected him to agree and I was grateful to have finally found someone who could contribute hard facts.

“Thomas was being maliciously pursued by someone out to destroy his professional reputation,” the lawyer explained. “It started in late spring, with leaks to the media and false press releases stating that his research was compromised, his results tainted, even that he was taking money from big tobacco companies to falsify his conclusions.”

“Who issued the releases and instigated the fake leaks?” I asked.

“There is strong evidence that they came from inside T&T Tobacco.”

“What kind of evidence?”

He hesitated. “This didn’t come from me, Miss Jones, you understand? But there were fax number imprints on some of the media communiqués matching internal machines at T&T. And mailed notices that used paper matching T&T’s second sheet letterhead. That sort of thing.”

“What else?” I asked. Matching fax numbers? A little obvious, I thought. Would anyone be that stupid?

“After word leaked that Tom was going to testify for the Hargett family in their lung cancer lawsuit, the harassment escalated to a personal level.” He sighed. “Frankly, I thought Tom treated the threats far too lightly. Unfortunately, as it turned out, I was right.”

His tiny hands would have been delicate even for a woman. He folded them and sighed. “It’s only the good who die young.”

< C=“0/p>

Thank you, Billy Joel. “What sort of things concerned you?” I asked. “Tom told me about the dead rabbit in his mailbox and the threatening letters and phone calls. Was there anything else?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Was there anything else that concerned you in particular?” I repeated.

The lawyer looked startled. “Are you telling me that Thomas hired you before his death? I thought someone hired you afterwards?”

“Yes, I’m telling you that,” I explained. “As a bodyguard. Though, as it turns out, I was barely able to put in twelve hours on his behalf before he was killed.”

The lawyer looked bewildered. “If Tom still considered the harassment bad enough to warrant a bodyguard, why wouldn’t he continue with the lawsuit?”

“I don’t know.” I wasn’t about to give away my theories.

The lawyer shook his head. “I don’t get it. But then, I never understood why he withdrew the lawsuit in the first place when the evidence against T&T was so compelling.”

“Do you really think so? I don’t find the fax number or matching letterhead evidence all that compelling,” I confessed. “That’s an easy setup.”

He leaned forward and whispered. “Miss Jones, I’m going to take a chance that you can keep your mouth shut and tell you something that it borders on the unethical to divulge.”

“Hear no evil, speak no evil,” I whispered back.

“Exactly.” He nodded. “We had hard evidence that Randolph Talbot himself was personally involved, with the threats on Tom’s life.”

“What?” I could see Talbot hiring goons to do his dirty work. I couldn’t see him duct-taping rabbits, not in his hand-tailored suits.

“Yes. And I absolutely can’t say more.” He sat back in his chair. “But, trust me, there was direct evidence linking Talbot to the crimes. It would have prevailed in a court of law, take my word for it.”

I thought back to all Thomas Nash had told me and factored in the new evidence. Had he really loved Lydia Talbot so much that he would ignore her father’s attempts on his life? “I don’t get it,” I said.

“You’re telling me.” Harry Ingram looked troubled. “When Tom told me he was dropping the lawsuit against Randolph Talbot, I begged him to reconsider. I told him that he was making a big mistake to let Talbot get away with it, that the attempts would continue.”