The Heir (23 page)

“Possibly the greatest scandal in recent American history,” another claimed.

I called Stan Morton. “I’m not doing an interview today.”

“Huh?” he said. “I don’t even know what day it is. You lose track when you don’t sleep. Did you kill Clinton Grainger?”

“Who’s saying that?”

“Just say yes or no.”

“No.”

“Good. But you’d say that anyway.”

“This is not why I called.”

“The interview. Tomorrow?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Eric must have spent the night, because he wandered in a while later, wearing the work clothes Katie had bought for me, his hair a mess. He stared at the screen and his blurred eyes got big.

“I’ve heard of him. They talked about Clinton Grainger in the newspaper yesterday.”

I played innocent. “Governor Bright is going to miss him.”

Eric nodded. “Yeah. Clinton Grainger is Harry Bright’s chief of staff and main political adviser. He’s been the mastermind behind his whole career.”

I turned from the television to look at my brother.

“What?” he said. “You told me to read the newspapers.”

“Is that what the papers said?”

“Well, sort of. You could figure it out. Did you know him?”

“I met him a couple times.”

“This might . . . Do you . . . Do you think it could be the same person who killed Angela?”

The whole huge cloud had at least one little silver lining—that Eric had something besides cars to figure out. “Um . . . the thought had crossed my mind.”

“Wow. This is big. Do you think it made it into the newspaper?”

“I bet it was too late. And Rule Number 92—don’t believe everything you read in the newspaper.”

“But you said to read it. You own it anyway.”

“That’s why Rule 92 is so important.”

At seven thirty, the governor appeared to make a statement. He was badly shaken, stumbling over his words, his face ashen and his hands trembling.

“This morning I lost a close adviser and a good friend. Clinton had been with me through thick and thin. I often counted on him for wise counsel, especially these last few days.We will all miss him, and I more than anyone.” Even if he’d invited them, none of the reporters would have dared to ask any questions. For the moment he’d score a lot of sympathy points with his voters, but the image of the blank eyes and dead expression would surely haunt him forever.

But many questions—Rhetorical News Anchor Questions— were asked of the viewers. “Will Harry Bright survive this latest blow? Is this murder related to the deaths of Melvin and Angela Boyer? What will the authorities find at the bottom of this affair?” And all the questions were answered with all the standard variations of the Rhetorical News Anchor Answer.

“Only time will tell.”

When Katie arrived for breakfast, I told her I’d be busy being rich and important for the day, and to not wait up.

“This is not a good habit,” she said. “You need sleep.”

“At least I’ve got a reason to be alive.”

“Rosita is planning a nice dinner.”

It is important to keep priorities. “Okay. I’ll try real hard to be here.”

I got to Fred’s office at eight forty. He had not come down from his indignancy plateau, but the first thing he said as I faced him across his desk was completely lucid.

“Be very careful. The meeting with Grainger last night could blow up in our faces.”

“I thought of that,” I said. “Motive and opportunity. But we can’t hide it.”

“It isn’t just that you will be a target for the murder investigation. We will also be vulnerable politically if it becomes public knowledge that we were negotiating with him. Unless . . . we could use that to our advantage.” He shook his head. There were too many angles for even Fred to work out. He settled into simple fulmination. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Everything is in shambles. Anything could happen right now. Who knows what might happen? Anything. Any single thing.”

“You’re feeling insecure, Fred. You should get therapy.”

“I don’t have time.”

I let him rant for a while. He was a poker shark who’d been dropped in a bridge tournament—it was a new game, he didn’t understand the rules, and he didn’t like it. Right now he was approaching hysterics, and somebody needed to slap him.

Fred’s secretary opened the door. “Mr. Boyer? Pamela called. She wanted to remind you that Detective Wilcox would be by at nine.”

That was the slap. “The police detective?” he said.

“I arranged it yesterday. I wanted to act cooperative.”

“Of course.” He was thinking coherently again. “This will be risky, but I see no other choice. It will be best to get it over with quickly.”

“Would you care to join us?”

“I think I had better.”

Being in an elevator that was trying to lift Fred Spellman to the top of a forty-two-story building also seemed risky, but I saw no other choice. We entered that little room, its door closed on us, and with a mighty effort it began its labor.

“Do you realize the gravity of the situation?” Fred asked.

That was exactly what I was thinking about, except that Fred meant Wilcox.

“Yes,” I said. “This murderer is for real, and so is the investigation. I don’t want to lose control.”

“No one is in control.”

We’d made it halfway. Fred was thinking very hard, and he turned suddenly to face me.

“Do you have an alibi for last night?”

“What?”

“What did you do after we separated?”

“I went home.”

“Last Saturday night, when Angela was shot. Where were you then?”

“On my boat.”

“With your wife?”

“Alone.”

“Don’t answer any questions he asks.”

We made it to the top, and I’d forgotten my worry about whether we would. “I’ll have to answer sometime.”

“Then just be very careful. Speak slowly so I can stop you if necessary.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that that doesn’t matter?” The elevator door opened.

“It does matter,” I said. “Not to the police, but it does matter.”

“Whatever.”

We crossed the lobby and opened the door to Pamela’s office.

Detective Wilcox rose to greet us, we all smiled, and I was reminded again how much I detested him. Or maybe just his mustache. He had a hard enough job, chasing criminals through political minefields. Why make it harder on himself, when a razor would slay that thing in two minutes?

“Please come in,” I said, and we filed into the throne room.

“Thank you for coming,” I said when we were all comfortable. “I guess you’re very busy today.”

“Yes, Mr. Boyer, I am,” he said. “But frankly, this meeting is right at the top of my list.” He looked like maybe he’d been sleeping as much as Stan Morton.

“It’s pretty high on my list, too.” I took a breath and began my official statement. “The last time we met, I was of the opinion that the investigation of Melvin Boyer’s death was politically motivated. I still think it was. Now, however, I accept that he was murdered. I want to cooperate with your investigation. I still don’t trust you, though. Your top boss is Harry Bright, and he’d like to murder me.”

Wilcox took a deep breath. “First, Mr. Boyer, let me assure you that the state police are completely independent.”

“And I completely believe you.”

“And we are only interested in solving these murders. That is my only purpose.”

“Then my purpose is to make sure you solve them correctly, because I think the governor has other purposes.”

He gave that up. “Anyway, sir, I would like to ask you some questions.”

“I think I’d like to ask questions first,” I said. “Are you treating all three of these murders as one case?”

“Uh, well, we don’t comment on investigations.”

I shook my head. “You’ll have to do much better than that, Mr. Wilcox. I said I’d cooperate, but I don’t need to do it for free.”

“I understand,” he said. “We’re keeping our options open. Personally, I think it’s clear the three cases are related.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“No one specific yet. But we have a list of obvious names.”

“Who’s on it?”

“Mr. Boyer, I can’t tell you that.”

“You said they’re obvious.”

“It’s obvious who benefited from the deaths.”

I’d done pretty well from them—that was obvious. “Melvin had a lot of enemies.”

“Yes, he did,” Wilcox said. “But that wouldn’t carry over to Angela Boyer, or to Clinton Grainger.”

“Detective Wilcox.” Fred didn’t want us to forget he was there. “Is Jason Boyer your main suspect?”

“We don’t have a main suspect.”

“Jason Boyer, Katie Boyer, Eric Boyer,” Fred listed. “Is there anyone else obvious?”

Wilcox shrugged. “I’ll just say those are the three names on the list that are underlined.”

“Katie and Eric don’t even know who Clinton Grainger is,” I said. I’d just throw myself on that grenade. Eric recognized Grainger’s name, but that didn’t count.

“We’re just getting started with Grainger’s murder,”Wilcox said. “I don’t even have forensics from the scene yet.”

“Next question,” I said. “Who broke into my office?”

Wilcox reacted just enough to convince me he knew. “I haven’t seen any report on that. When did it happen?”

“Friday or Saturday, three weeks ago. I didn’t file a report. Since the police did it, why waste the time? They got Melvin’s office, too.”

“I don’t know anything about that, Mr. Boyer.”

“It sounds like the police department needs to work on internal communications. Never mind. What would you like to ask me?”

“Um, back to our list. Do you have any additional names for it?”

“No.”

He paused and looked down at his notebook. “How well did you know Clinton Grainger?” It was time to get personal.

“I met him three times.”

“When was the last time?” Wilcox asked, still looking down. Fred shifted in his chair.

“Last night,” I said.

This was news to him. Fred sniffed. “What time?”Wilcox asked.

“About eleven forty, for maybe ten minutes.”

He scribbled. “Where?”

“At the Hilton, in the bar.”

He looked up at me. “Any witnesses?”

“I was there,” Fred said. “Mr. Boyer and I left together, several minutes after Mr. Grainger. We parted in front of the hotel.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I’ll just say it was obvious,” I said.

Wilcox looked back at his notebook, then at me. “This is very important information, Mr. Boyer. You were the last people to see him?”

“Except for whoever killed him.”

Wilcox ignored that. “Did anyone else know about your meeting?”

“I told my wife and brother I was meeting someone, but not who. Pamela, my secretary, arranged the meeting. I don’t know if anyone on his staff knew. They said on the television that he was shot beside his car?”

“Yes. He was.”

“Where was his car?” I asked.

“Just in front of the hotel.”

It had been his car. “Then he was killed after we left. We gave him time to leave first so he wouldn’t be seen with us. I think he met someone else.”

“Who?” Wilcox said.

“I don’t know.”

“Why do you believe he met someone?”

“His car was still in front of the hotel when we left. At least, I guessed it was his.”

“I see. Would you say you benefited from Clinton Grainger’s death, Mr. Boyer?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find out.”

“What do you mean?”

Surely Wilcox knew his way around this neighborhood. “Grainger was advising the governor against me. But he’d probably keep the governor from doing anything irrational,” I said. “Now Bright may do something crazy. I think I would prefer that Clinton Grainger were still advising him.”

“I see.” Wilcox was not writing this down. He turned to Fred. “Mr. Spellman, you were the last person to see Melvin Boyer alive, and now also Clinton Grainger.” Then, in a sudden act of bravery, Detective Wilcox stuck his head into the lion’s mouth. “Mr. Spell-man, where were you last Saturday night when Angela Boyer was killed?”

“Are you putting my name on your list, Mr. Wilcox?” I’d seen many sides of Fred recently, but he was still big enough to have a few more. I looked closely to see if my ears were right. They were; he was about to laugh, he thought the idea was so funny.

“It’s just routine—” Wilcox started, but Fred burst out with a snort. He couldn’t help it.

“I’ll have to defer,” he said, when he could. “If you’re serious, you’ll need to make an appointment. And I’ll need to hire an attorney.”

Wilcox tried again. “It’s just routine. I’ll need to ask you these questions.”

“Mr. Boyer has been very patient and generous, but I am not.” Fred had gotten over his fit. “If you send me a list of questions, I will consider answering them.”

So that’s how it would be. Wilcox gave up. He was probably in a hurry anyway. “I’ll be in touch. Thank you, Mr. Boyer. Could you keep us informed if you leave town?”

“No,” I said.

“I’ll have more questions.”

“My secretary can reach me. Wait. I have one more question.”

That was usually his line, but he stopped. “Yes?”

“Was there really brake fluid in Mr. Spellman’s driveway?”

“That is from the original report.”

“I had a meeting with Grainger three weeks ago. Maybe you remember? I think he spoke with you afterward.”

“Um, he may have spoken with Police Commissioner De-Angelo.”

“We discussed the report, and he didn’t know whether it was true. He only said they’d been told to make sure there was evidence.”

“Mr. Boyer . . .”

I interrupted. “So is the report true or not?”

That required some chewing on his lip. “It might not be possible to corroborate that physically. All I have is that report.”

“You would have the person who wrote the report.”

“Um, yes.” Either it was fake or he didn’t know whether it was or not, and possibly he and the author were not on speaking terms. That left the ice under him pretty thin, and it was time to get off the pond. “Thank you again, Mr. Boyer,” he said. I didn’t press him to stay.

And so he left us. I’d gotten more out of the interrogation than he had, and I would not have minded a little quiet thinking time, just leaning back and contemplating the world forty-two stories below. Something, however, was blocking my view.