P is for Peril (22 page)

“Any messages?” I asked.

“Just one. Mrs. Purcell said she's back and she's expecting you at two o'clock.”

“When? Today or tomorrow?”

“Oh.”

“Don't worry about it. I can figure it out. Anything else?”

“This came,” she said, and handed me an Express Mail envelope. I opened the flap. Inside was the contract Fiona'd signed and returned. Shit. I already hated feeling bound to her.

“Also, someone's here to see you. I showed her into your office and took her a cup of coffee.”

That got my attention. “You left her in my office by her
self?
”

“I have work to do. I couldn't
stay.
”

“How do you know she's not back there going through my desk?” I said, knowing that's what I'd be doing if I were in her place.

“I don't think she'd do that. She seems nice.”

I could feel my heat gauge rising into the red zone. “I seem nice, too. That doesn't count for much. How long's she been there?” To be fair, I was probably displacing my feelings about Fiona onto her, but I was pissed, anyway.

Jeniffer made a face to show she was thinking real hard. “Not long. Twenty minutes. Maybe a little more.”

“Is she at least someone I know?”

“I
think
so,” she said, faintly. “Her name's Mariah
something.
I just figured she'd be more comfortable back there than if she waited for you out here.”

“Jeniffer, in that length of time, she could have ripped me off for everything I own.”

“You said that. I'm sorry.”

“Forget about ‘sorry.' Don't ever do it again.” I headed down the inner corridor. I looked back at her. “And get some pantyhose,” I snapped. As I passed Ida Ruth's desk, she was studiously avoiding my gaze, no doubt thrilled I was being subjected to a sample of Jeniffer's continuing ineptitude.

My office door was closed. I barged in to find a woman sitting in the guest chair. She'd placed her empty coffee mug on the edge of the desk in front of her. Scanning the surface, I could've sworn my files were ever so slightly disarranged. I looked at her quizzically and she returned my gaze with eyes as blank and blue as a Siamese cat's.

She couldn't have been more than twenty-six, but her hair was a startling silver-gray, as polished as pewter. She wore very little makeup, but her skin tones looked warm against the frosty hair, which was combed back and anchored behind her ears. She had a finely sculpted jaw, a strong nose and chin, lightly feathered brows. The skirt of her gray wool business suit was cut short and sheer black hose emphasized her shapely knees, one of which carried the vestiges of an old scar. There was a black briefcase resting near the left side of her chair. She looked like an expensive lawyer with a high-powered firm. Maybe I was being sued.

Warily, I moved around my desk and sat down. She shed her jacket with ease and arranged it across the back of the chair to avoid wrinkling it. From the shape of her shoulders and upper arms, I knew she worked out a lot harder than I did.

“I'm Mariah Talbot,” she said. The black silk tank top rustled faintly as she reached across the desk to shake hands. She had long oval nails painted a neutral shade. The effect was sophisticated; nothing gaudy about this one. The most riveting feature was a gnarly white scar, probably a burn, on the outer aspect of her right forearm.

“Do we have an appointment?” I asked, unable to keep the testiness out of my voice.

“We don't, but I'm here on a matter I think will interest you,” she said, unruffled. Whatever my disposition, it wasn't going to bother
her.
The image she projected was one of composure, competence, efficiency, and determination. Her smile, when it appeared, scarcely softened her face.

“What's the deal?”

She leaned forward, placing her business card on the desk in front of me. The face of it read, MARIAH TALBOT, SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS UNIT, GUARDIAN CASUALTY INSURANCE, with an address and phone number I scarcely stopped to read. The logo was a four-leaf clover with
Home, Auto, Life,
and
Health
written in each of the four loops. “We need to have a chat about your landlord.”

“Henry?”

“Richard Hevener.”

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that. “What about him?”

“You may not be aware of this, but Richard and Tommy are fraternal twins.”

“Really?” I said, thinking,
Who gives a shit?

“Here's something else you may not be aware of. Richard and Tommy murdered their parents back in Texas in 1983.”

I could feel my lips parting slightly, as though in preparation for the punch line to a joke.

The combination of the blue eyes and the silver hair was arresting, and I could hardly keep from staring. She went on, her manner completely matter-of-fact: “They hired someone to break into the house. As nearly as we can tell, the plan was for the burglar to drill the safe and walk off with a substantial amount of cash, plus jewelry valued at close to a million dollars. The boys' mother, Brenda, was the older of two girls who came from an incredibly wealthy Texas family named Atcheson. Brenda inherited a stunning jewelry collection that she left, by will, to her only sister, Karen. These are pieces that have been passed down through the family for years.”

She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a fat brown accordion file. She removed a manila folder and passed it over to me. “These are the newspaper clippings. Plus, one copy each of the two wills.”

I opened the file and glanced at the first few clippings, dated January 15, 22, and 29 of 1983. In all three articles, Richard and Tommy were pictured, looking solemn and withdrawn, flanked by their attorney in a three-piece business suit. Headlines indicated the two were being questioned in the ongoing investigation of the homicides of Jared and Brenda Hevener. Additional articles covered the investigation over the balance of the year. I didn't stop to read the wills.

Mariah Talbot went on. “You'll notice their aunt Karen's name cropping up in some of the articles. The burglar was a punk named Casey Stonehart, who'd already been jailed six times for a variety of crimes ranging from petty theft to arson, a minor specialty of his. We believe he opened the safe using the combination they'd given him. Then he dismantled the smoke detectors and set a blaze meant to cover up the crime. Apparently—and this is only a guess—the deal was he'd take the bulk of the jewelry, which he was in a position to fence. The boys would take the cash and maybe a few choice pieces, then submit a claim to the insurance company for the house, its contents, the jewelry, and anything else they could get away with. Oh yes, the cars. Two Mercedes-Benz were destroyed in the blaze. Mr. and Mrs. Hevener were found bound and gagged in the master bedroom closet. They died of smoke inhalation, which is not as bad as being burned alive— lucky them. Neither boy was anywhere in the area. In fact, both by some miracle were out of town and had iron-clad alibis,” she said. “Stonehart, the kid who did the dirty work, disappeared soon afterward; probably dead and buried somewhere, though we have no proof. He's been missing ever since so it's a safe bet they got rid of him. An accomplice is always the weak link in these things.”

“Couldn't he be in hiding?”

“If he were, he'd have been in touch with his family. They're all deadbeats and bums, but loyal to a fault. They wouldn't care what he'd done.”

“How do you know their loyalty doesn't include keeping mum about where he is?”

“The sheriff's department put a mail check in place and there's a trace on the phone. Believe me, the silence has been absolute. This is a kid with big dependency issues. If he were alive, he couldn't tolerate the separation.”

I cleared my throat. “When was this again?” I knew she'd told me, but I could hardly take it in.

“1983. Hatchet, Texas. It didn't take long for suspicion to fall on the two boys, but they'd been extremely clever. There was little to suggest the part they'd played . . . beyond the obvious, of course. Financially, they cleaned up. For them, it must have been better than the lottery. To all appearances, there was no bad blood between them and their parents, no public disagreements, no recent increases in insurance coverage. There was also very little linking them to Casey Stonehart. No phone records showing calls between the brothers and him. Bank accounts showed no unusual withdrawals to suggest a down payment on Casey's services. The kid was such a lowlife he didn't even have a bank account. He kept his money in his mattress; the Sealy Posturepedic Savings and Loan. The three of them did attend the same high school. Casey was a year behind the Heveners, but there was no overt connection. It's not like they bowled in the same league or hung out together.”

Anything I'd felt for Tommy had evaporated. “What about the parents' wills? Anything of interest there?”

Mariah shook her head. “No changes in the terms since the document was drawn up when the boys were born. The attorney was a bit lax in that regard. The twins had reached their majority and adjustments should have been made. Their aunt Karen was still listed as their guardian if something happened to the parents.”

“What made the cops fix on them?”

“For one thing, neither of them can act. They put on a good show, but the feelings were all phony, strictly crocodile tears. At the time, both were still living at home. Tommy was one of those perpetual college students; his way of refusing to grow up and go out on his own. Richard fancied himself an ‘entrepreneur,' which meant he borrowed and squandered money as fast as it came into his hands. Jared was thoroughly disgusted with them. He considered them moochers and he was sick of it. Brenda, too. This we heard about later from close friends of theirs.”

“I'm assuming the brothers were charged?”

Mariah shook her head. “Police investigators couldn't cobble together sufficient evidence to satisfy the D.A. Of course, the insurance company balked at paying, but the boys filed suit and forced them to perform. Since they'd hadn't been arrested, charged with, or convicted of any crime, Guardian Casualty had no choice but to pay up.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand each in life insurance. The homeowner's and auto claims came to a little over three quarters of a million dollars. This is Texas, don't forget. Not like real estate values you're used to dealing with out here. Also, despite his business acumen, Jared never managed to amass much in the way of wealth. Lot of what he did was probably under the table, which is neither here nor there. Anyway, along with the insurance, you add the cash in the safe—which probably amounted to another hundred grand—and the jewelry on top of that, and you can see they did well. Guardian Casualty and Karen Atcheson, the boys' aunt, are preparing to file a civil suit to recover their losses. We're convinced the boys still have the jewelry if we can find a way to prevail. I've been assigned to handle the preliminary investigation.”

“Why now when the murders were three years ago? I know proof in a civil case is easier, but you still have to have all your ducks in a row.”

“Someone's come forward . . . an informant . . . very hush-hush. This is the arsonist, a professional, who talked to Casey twice—once before the fire and then again right afterward. It was his expertise Casey was relying on, because the job was much bigger than anything he'd done in his piddling career.”

“What was the arsonist getting in return?”

“A piece of Casey's action. Once the arsonist found out about the killings, he wasn't willing to 'fess up to any part in it. He was nervous about a felony murder charge, or worse—that the brothers would kill him. Now he's decided to do what's right and that's why we think we have a shot at this.”

“Why doesn't he go to the cops and let them handle it?”

“He will if Guardian Casualty comes up with the evidence.”

I pushed the file aside. “And you're here to do what?”

Mariah smiled to herself as though privately amused. “I've been nosing around. It looks like funds are low and the boys are getting on each other's nerves. We're counting on the fact they're having cash-flow problems. That's why Richard agreed to lease the place to you, if you haven't figured that out. You offered him six months' rent in advance and he needed the bucks.”

“How'd you find out about that?”

“We gimmicked up another applicant, a writer looking for an office away from his home. The cash is the explanation Richard gave when he turned him down. At any rate, the friction between the brothers could really work for us. I'm always hoping one will break down and rat the other one out. We've been after them for three years and this is as close as we've come.”

“What's this got to do with me?”

“We'd like to hire you to do some work for us.”

“Such as?”

“We want you to pass along the name of a fence in Los Angeles. He's a jeweler by trade. The business looks legitimate on the surface, but he's actually a fence. He deals in stolen property when the quality or quantity is sufficient to make it worth the risk. With money getting scarce, the boys might be tempted to dip into the stash, which we don't think they've touched.”

“But they can't get anywhere close to true value through a fence.”

“What choice do they have?”

“Wouldn't they be better off trying to auction some of the pieces through Christie's or Sotheby's?”

“Christie's or Sotheby's would insist on a provenance . . . proof the jewelry was theirs . . . which they can't provide. They may try selling to a private party, which is yet another reason we're stepping up the pace.”