Secret Combinations (4 page)

Kenyon tucked the card in his pocket and shook Fairmont's hand. “Thanks for taking time to greet me, Stan, but I can see you're busy, so I'll just grab a cab . . .”

“Hey, don't even think of it,” said Fairmont. “I brought you some wheels.” The legal attaché led Kenyon outside, where a black Lincoln town car rested by the curb.

“Compliments of the ambassador,” said Fairmont. “When he heard you took one in the ass for your country, he coughed up a free limo ride.”

A Marine sergeant hopped out of the driver's seat, saluted Kenyon, and grabbed his carry-on bag. Kenyon eased into the back seat and turned his attention to the interior of the car, but Fairmont tapped on the window. The agent found the button and lowered the smoked glass.

“Remember, anything comes up, you call Arundel, got me?”

Kenyon smiled. “Got you.”

Fairmont nodded to the driver, then disappeared back into the terminal.

The marine climbed back into the car. “Where to, sir?” he asked.

Kenyon handed him the address, then leaned back into the plush upholstery as the driver wheeled onto the main highway.

It was a hot, sunny day, and traffic moved briskly down the left-hand side of the road. Kenyon shook his head; he was still on San Francisco time and it felt like the middle of the night. Having all the traffic reversed added to his sense of unreality.

The driver was engrossed in his task, giving Kenyon the opportunity to sit back and observe the city as it rolled past. The streets were wide and lined with row houses of red brick and white stone. Many of the buildings rose up to a height of five stories, with impressive entrances flanked by columns of carved marble. They passed several palaces and landscaped parks, and an immense monument dedicated to Wellington's victory at Waterloo.

After almost an hour's ride the cab drove under a limestone arch inscribed “New Square.” The square was a large, rectangular park carpeted in green lawn and fringed by a ring of four-story, brown brick buildings. Men and women dressed in long black gowns and white wigs walked along the perimeter of the square. Several of them stared at the limo as it passed, trying to see through the tinted glass windows.

The large automobile pulled up to the curb about halfway around the square. “This is it, sir,” said the marine. “Shall I wait for you?”

“No thanks,” said Kenyon, glad to be out of the big, ostentatious car. “I'll grab a cab when I'm done.”

The marine removed Kenyon's luggage from the trunk and, after one final salute, drove away.

Kenyon double-checked the address before advancing up the walkway. An unpolished brass plate on an ancient oak door proclaimed this to be “Burnham Sharpley & Co. Law Firm.” The door was open and Kenyon entered.

The interior of the building was dark and gloomy and looked to be several hundred years old. Kenyon took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the low light of the reception room.

A male clerk sat at a desk, pecking away at a grimy keyboard. He looked up irritably. “What is it?” he demanded.

“My name is Kenyon. I'm here to see Miss Tanya O'Neill.”

“Just a moment.” The clerk picked up a phone that would have looked right at home with a hand crank on the side of it, and dialed a number. “Yes, a Mr. Kenyon to see you.” He hung up the phone and arched an eyebrow. “She'll be right out.” The clerk went back to his typing.

Kenyon looked around the room. The only free seat was greasy and worn, and he didn't want to risk staining his suit. The whole office looked cheap and run down. Is this all that Lydia could afford? He wondered if they had buried his aunt in Beggar's Row.

A small woman in her late twenties appeared at the door. She extended her hand in greeting and the cuff of a turquoise blouse peeked from beneath her dark solicitor's robes. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kenyon,” she said, in a soft Irish brogue. “I'm Tanya O'Neill.”

Kenyon shook her hand solemnly. “Pleased to meet you, ma'am.”

O'Neill turned and pointed down the hall. “Would you care to join me in my chambers?”

Kenyon smiled as he followed her into the inner recesses of the office. Her dark red hair, cut in a page boy style, bounced from side to side as she walked.

The dark corridor doglegged several times. Kenyon had to take care not to bang his head on the low, exposed beams. They finally turned into a small office, and O'Neill closed the door behind them.

Kenyon glanced around the room. The lawyer's desk was made of ancient, heavily scarred wood. A large computer screen rested in the center, and a decorative alabaster vase sat on one corner. The remainder of the surface was almost completely covered with legal files.

The rest of the room was as fashionable as the desk. The carpet was dull brown and needed cleaning. Except for a small lead-paned window that opened onto a tiny courtyard, the walls were covered with shelves of legal texts.

The only decoration in the room was an oil painting, propped against the wall beneath the window. It was a portrait of a nude woman, framed in a thick, burgundy-colored wood. It looked distinctly out of place.

“Care to sit down?” O'Neill motioned her visitor to a wooden chair as she took her place behind her desk.

Kenyon eased himself down onto the hard chair and grimaced at the pain.

O'Neill, not noticing his discomfort, picked up a folder marked “Kenyon.” She opened it, and began to read. “I, Lydia Kenyon, of 61 Herringbone Gardens, London, hereby revoke all wills and testamentary dispositions made by me and declare this to be my last will, which I make this 29th day of June.”

O'Neill flipped the first page over and was about to begin reading the contents of the will when she noticed Kenyon's pained expression. “Is there something amiss?” she asked.

Kenyon squirmed in the hard wooden seat. “It's nothing—I got shot in the backside a few days ago, and this chair is a little uncomfortable.”

O'Neill blinked in surprise. “Oh, dear. Let me see if I can find you a cushion.” The solicitor stood up from behind her desk and exited the room.

O'Neill was gone for several minutes and Kenyon took the opportunity to stand up and take a closer look at the painting. The nude was reclining in a settee beside a large bay window. Her slim body was angled to one side, but her gaze was turned directly toward the viewer. Her blond hair was cropped short, and there was something about the way she cradled her breasts in her left arm that was sensuous, yet vulnerable. Her lips were curled up in a sly, mysterious smile. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, a little old for Kenyon, but he still found her very attractive.

O'Neill came back into the office holding a thick, bright-orange cushion. “Will this do?”

Kenyon placed the cushion on his chair and gingerly lowered himself down. It was surprisingly comfortable. “That's great,” he announced.

Satisfied, O'Neill returned to her chair behind the desk, and resumed her reading of the will. “On behalf of Mrs. Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand, of Ingoldsby Manor, Surrey, I give a donation of ten thousand pounds to the Daughters of Mercy charity.”

“Who's that?” asked Kenyon.

O'Neill glanced up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering who Mrs. Ilsa whatever is.”

“Mrs. Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand,” repeated O'Neill. “She is a patron of the arts and charity.”

“She must have been a friend of Lydia's, then.”

O'Neill paused for a moment. “I wouldn't say that, no.”

Kenyon raised an eyebrow. “Lydia gave ten thousand to someone she didn't like?”

“Lydia held the Daughters of Mercy charity very close to her heart,” said O'Neill. “In fact, I have a recording of the charity auction that Lydia organized.” She dug in a drawer of her desk and pulled out a
DVD
, handing it across the desk to Kenyon. “The production company just sent it to me yesterday.”

“Thanks.” Kenyon put it in his suit pocket.

The solicitor cleared her throat, then continued. “In recognition of his long friendship, I give Mr. Raymond Legrand of Ingoldsby Manor, Surrey, a Louis Vuitton briefcase, stored at 61 Herringbone Gardens, London.”

Kenyon interrupted again. “Is Legrand connected to Ilsa?”

“Mr. Legrand is Ilsa's husband.” O'Neill wet her finger and quickly flipped a page in the document. “Finally, I give all my remaining property and assets, both real and personal, movable and immovable, to Mr. Jack Kenyon, of San Francisco, California.” She picked up a small folder and handed it to Kenyon across the desk.

The
FBI
agent flipped it open. “What's this?”

“It is a tabulation of Lydia's property, prepared by her last month.”

Kenyon whistled. According to the list, he was now the proud owner of a home in the borough of Kensington and Chelsea, an art gallery in Mayfair, and a vineyard somewhere in France. There was also an extensive list of furniture, artwork, silverware, and other valuables. Kenyon's eyes grew wide as he flipped through page after page. “Man, she had a ton of stuff.”

“Lydia was an affluent woman,” agreed O'Neill. “You have quite a bit of work ahead of you.”

Kenyon's pleased expression immediately dissolved, and he looked up in alarm. “Whoa, what do you mean: ‘quite a bit of work'?”

O'Neill pointed to the list. “The will has not been fully probated yet. As executor, you must value Lydia's estate, pay out the inheritance taxes, then finalize all behests.”

“How long is all that going to take?”

O'Neill thought for a moment. “Assuming that the list is correct, and you can find and account for everything, it shouldn't take more than a few months.”

“A few months!” cried Kenyon. “I don't have months, I gotta get back to San Francisco as soon as possible!” Kenyon pictured the mess the Cyberworm investigation would be in if he didn't get home within the week. “Can't you speed things up?”

O'Neill stared down at the will. “I'm sorry, Mr. Kenyon. I'm trying to move ahead as quickly as possible, but you must understand, it was only two days ago that we, we . . .” The solicitor didn't finish her sentence. Her shoulders began to shake, then she began to cry, softly.

Kenyon stared at the lawyer for a moment, unsure what to do. He finally dug into his jacket pocket and found a paper napkin left over from the airplane meal. He stood up and limped around the desk. “Here, use this,” he said.

O'Neill took it and dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you,” she replied. “I'll be all right.”

“Was it something I said?” Kenyon asked.

“No, I was just thinking about Lydia,” replied O'Neill. “Her memorial service was two days ago. It was very beautiful. I'm sorry you couldn't be there.”

“Yeah, well,” Kenyon pointed to his posterior, “I was in the hospital.”

O'Neill nodded, wiping her nose. She offered the napkin back, but Kenyon motioned to her to keep it. “I take it you were good friends with Lydia?”

“She was a wonderful friend. She supported me while I qualified for the bar.” O'Neill waved her arm around the book-lined room. “She helped me find a position with this firm. She was so kind to me—I don't know what I would have made of my life without her.”

“That was very sweet of her,” replied Kenyon. “She must have been a very generous person.”

“She was an angel,” replied O'Neill. “I still can't believe she's, she's . . .”

She began to cry again; this time, Kenyon waited patiently until her sobs subsided into sniffles.

“You must think I'm an awful solicitor,” she said.

“No, not at all. I wish more lawyers had a heart like you.”

O'Neill smiled. “That's kind of you to say.” She looked carefully at Kenyon's face. “You know, you remind me of her.”

“Thanks. I should tell you, though, we weren't really related. I was adopted by her folks when I was a baby.”

“She spoke of you often. She was very proud of you.”

“She did?” said Kenyon, surprised. “I mean, she was? How come? I never even met her.”

O'Neill shrugged. “I don't know. She said you were with the
FBI
, and she was very happy for you.”

Kenyon returned to his chair and sat down. “You know, it's sad. Lydia and her dad never got along. Here she is, leaving me all this stuff, and I never even so much as saw a picture of her.”

O'Neill came from behind the desk and stood beside him, pointing over his shoulder. “That's a picture of her, there.”

Kenyon turned and looked at the nude in the oil painting. “That's
her
?” His ears burned red as he thought of his feelings of attraction the first time he looked at the painting.

“It was done in her home,” continued O'Neill, oblivious of his discomfort. “She insisted I have it just before, you know, before . . .”

This time, Kenyon stood up and placed an arm around her and held her close, the top of her head resting against his chest. Her shoulders shook for a moment as Kenyon stroked her hair. It was soft, he noted, and smelled of peaches.

When she finally stopped, Kenyon leaned over to catch her eye. “Listen, maybe I can take you out for a drink while I'm here; you can tell me all about Lydia. I'd love to hear more about her.”

She smiled briefly. “I'd like that.”

“Great. Let me find a place to stay, and I'll give you a call and leave you a message.”

O'Neill shook her head firmly. “I wouldn't even think of letting you stay in a hotel.”

Kenyon held up his hand. “Thanks for the invite, but I couldn't put you out by staying at your place. You've got a lot to do, and I'd just be a distraction.”

“I wasn't thinking of my home, you silly. I meant Lydia's.”

Kenyon glanced around at the painting of Lydia, then back at O'Neill. “I don't know . . .” he started. For some reason, he felt creepy about staying in a nude dead woman's home.