The King of Lies (10 page)

CHAPTER 11

A
n hour later, I was showered, changed, and clear in my head for the first time in what felt like years. It may have been years. What I knew was this: All you have in life is family. If you are lucky, that includes the kind you married. I was not so fortunate, but I had Jean. I’d take the fall for her if I had to.

I made two phone calls, the first to Clarence Hambly; after my father, he was considered the finest attorney in the county. He’d drawn up Ezra’s will. He’d just returned from church but reluctantly agreed to meet me later in the day. Next, I called Hank Robins, a private investigator in Charlotte whom I’d used on most of my murder cases. His machine picked up: “I can’t take your call right now, probably because I’m out spying on somebody. Leave your number so I don’t have to trace it.” Hank was an irreverent bastard. He was thirty now, looked forty on a rough day, and was the most fearless man I’d ever met. Plus, I liked him. I told him to call me on my cell phone.

I left Barbara a note saying I might not be home that night and put Bone in the car. We went shopping. I bought him a new collar, leash, and dog bowls. I also picked up a thirty-pound bag of puppy food and a box of jerky treats. By the time I got back to the car, he’d chewed the leather off one of the headrests, which gave me an idea. I drove a BMW that Barbara had insisted would draw clients, which, in retrospect, was hilarious. I still owed a few grand on it and resented every payment. I took it to a shade-tree lot off Highway 150 and traded it for a five-year-old pickup. It smelled bad, but Bone seemed to like the taste of it.

We were having lunch in the park when Hank finally called. “Work, my man! Been reading about you in the papers. How’s my favorite suit holding up?”

“I have to admit that I’ve been better.”

“Yeah. Figured as much.”

“How’s your schedule these days, Hank?”

“Always busy. I even work sometimes. What’ve you got for me? Another Rowan County tragedy of love and deception? Rival dope dealers? Not another remote-control killer, I hope.”

“It’s complicated.”

“The best ones always are.”

“Are you alone?” I asked.

“I’m still in bed, if that answers your question.”

“We need to talk in person.”

“Salisbury, Charlotte, or in between. Just tell me when and where.”

That was a no-brainer. I’d take any excuse to get out of town and get some breathing room. “How about six tonight at the Dunhill?” The Dunhill Hotel was on Tryon Street in downtown Charlotte. It had a great bar, full of deep and shadowed booths, and would be almost empty on a Sunday night.

“Should I bring you a date?” Hank asked, and I heard a giggle from his end of the phone, a woman.

“Six o’clock, Hank. And that crack will cost you the first round.” I hung up, feeling better. Hank was a good man to have on your side.

Ezra’s attorney had made it plain that I should not arrive before two. I had half an hour. I put the dog bowls and trash into the truck and whistled for Bone. He was wet from the lake, but I let him ride up front. Halfway there and he was in my lap, head out the window. So, stinking of wet dog and used truck, I walked up the wide steps of the Hambly mansion on its sprawling acres just outside of town. The house was huge, with marble fountains, twelve-foot doors, and a four-room guest house. A plaque beside the door announced that Hambly House had been built circa 1788. I thought maybe I should genuflect.

Judging from Clarence Hambly’s face, I did not measure up to the learned colleague he’d expected to appear on this day of holy worship. Hambly was old, lined, and strait-laced, but he stood tall in a dark suit and paisley tie. He had thick white hair and matching eyebrows, which probably added an extra fifty dollars to his hourly rate.

He was genteel, whereas my father had been aggressive, as mannered as Ezra had been bullish, but he was still full of it; I’d seen him in court enough times to know that his Holy Roller attitude never interfered with his shameless quest for high-dollar jury awards. His witnesses were well prepped and slick. The Ten Commandments did not hang on his office wall.

He was old Salisbury money, and I know that my father had hated that about him, but he was good, and my father had insisted on the best, especially where money was concerned.

“I would prefer to do this tomorrow,” he said without preamble, his eyes moving up from my scuffed hiking boots to my grass-stained blue jeans and the frayed collar of the shirt I refused to let die.

“It’s important, Clarence. I need to do this now. I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “Consider it a professional courtesy, then,” he said, and ushered me inside. I stepped into his marble foyer, hoping that there was no dog shit on my shoes. “Let’s go into my study.”

I followed him down a long hall, catching a glimpse through large French doors of the pool outside and the manicured gardens beyond. The place smelled of cigars, oiled leather, and old people; I was willing to bet that his maids wore uniforms.

His study was narrow but deep, with tall windows, more French doors, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Apparently, he was into antique guns, fresh-cut flowers, and the color blue. An eight-foot gold-filigree mirror hung behind his desk; in it I looked rumpled and small, which was probably intentional.

“I’m putting your father’s estate into probate tomorrow,” he told me as he closed double doors and pointed to a leather chair. I sat. He moved behind his desk but remained standing. He looked down at me from this position of assumed authority, reminding me of how much I hated lawyer bullshit. “So there’s no reason we can’t discuss the details now. For the record, however, I was going to call you this week to schedule a meeting.”

“Thank you for that,” I said, because I was expected to. Never mind the enormous fee he would collect as executor of Ezra’s estate. I steepled my fingers and concentrated on looking deferential, when what I wanted to do was put my feet on his desk.

“Also for the record, accept my condolences on your loss. I know that Barbara must be a great comfort. She comes from a fine family. A beautiful woman.”

For the record, I wished there was shit on my shoes. “Thank you,” I said.

“Although your father and I were often on opposite sides of the table, I had tremendous respect for his accomplishments. He was a fine attorney.” He eyed me from his great height. “Something to aspire to,” he concluded meaningfully.

“I don’t want to take any more of your time than necessary,” I reminded him.

“Yes, of course. To business, then. Your father’s estate was sizable.”

“How sizable?” I interrupted. Ezra had been secretive about his finances. I knew very little about it.

“Sizable,” Hambly reiterated. I looked blank and waited. Once wills are put into probate, they become public record. There was no reason for reticence.

Hambly grudgingly conceded. “Roughly forty million dollars,” he said.

I almost fell out of my chair—literally. I would have guessed six or seven million at the most.

“In addition to his skills as a lawyer,” Hambly continued, “he was an adept investor. Other than the house and the building on lawyers’ row, it’s all in liquid securities.”

“Forty million dollars,” I said.

“A little over, actually.” Hambly met my eyes and, to his credit, kept his face neutral. He’d been born rich, yet would never see forty million dollars. It had to gall him, and I suddenly realized that this was another reason my father had gone to Clarence Hambly. I almost smiled, but then I thought of Jean and the miserable house she lived in. I smelled stale pizza and pictured her face in the window of her beaten-down car, the way she’d heaved herself up the steps of Glena Werster’s stone monument to greed and ego. At least that will change, I thought.

“And?” I asked.

“The house and the building go to you outright. Ten million dollars will fund the Ezra Pickens Charitable Foundation. You will have a seat on the board. Fifteen million dollars goes into trust for you. Taxes take the rest.”

I was stunned. “What about Jean?” I asked.

“Jean gets nothing,” Hambly stated, then sniffed loudly.

I came out of my chair. “Nothing?” I repeated.

“Sit down, please.”

I complied because I lacked the strength to stand.

“You know how your father felt. Women have no business dealing with money or finances. It might be imprudent to tell you this, but your father changed the will after Alex Shiften came on the scene. Originally, he planned for two million to go into trust for Jean, to be managed by this firm or by her husband, should she marry. But with Alex in the picture . . . You know how your father felt.”

“Did he know that they were sleeping together?” I asked.

“He suspected.”

“And so he cut her out of the will.”

“Basically.”

“Was Jean aware of this?”

Hambly shrugged but didn’t answer the question. “People do funny things with their money, Work. They use it for their own reasons.”

I felt an electric tingle as I realized Hambly wasn’t talking about Jean anymore. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“The trust for you,” Hambly began, finally taking his seat.

“What about it?”

“You will have full, unfettered use of the income it generates until age sixty. Conservatively invested, it should provide at least a million dollars a year. At sixty, you get it all.”

“But?” I sensed a catch.

“There are certain requirements.”

“Such as?”

“You are required to be actively engaged in the practice of law until such time.”

“What?”

“This point is exquisitely clear, Work. Your father felt it important that you carry on the practice, that you maintain your place in society and in the profession. He was concerned that if he just left you the money, you might do something imprudent.”

“Like be happy?”

Hambly ignored my sarcasm and the raw, naked emotion that must have been in my voice. Even from the grave, my father was trying to dictate the terms of my life, to manipulate me. “He was not specific in that regard,” Hambly said. “But he was very specific in others. This firm will act as trustee. It will be up to us”—he gave me a thin smile—“up to me, actually, to determine whether or not you are actively engaged in the practice of law. One of the criteria, for instance, is that you bill at least twenty thousand dollars a month, adjusted for inflation, of course.”

“I don’t bill half that now and you know it.”

“Yes.” Another smile. “Your father thought this might prove to motivate you.”

“Un-fucking-believable,” I said, anger finally finding a voice.

Hambly rose to his full height and leaned forward, hands splayed on his desk. “Let me make one thing clear, Mr. Pickens. I will not tolerate profanity in this house. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth. “I understand. What else?”

“Any year that you do not satisfy the requirements of the trust document, the income from the trust will go to the Ezra Pickens Foundation. If in two of any five years you fail to meet the requirements of the trust document, the trust will terminate and the full corpus of the trust will transfer irrevocably to the foundation. However, when you reach age sixty, should you comply fully, the entire balance becomes yours to do with as you please. I will provide you with copies of all documents, of course.”

“Is that it?” I asked, my sarcasm so thick, no one could miss it. I should have known better.

“In essence,” he said. “But there is one last, small thing. Should it ever be shown that you have given any money whatsoever to your sister, Jean Pickens, either directly or indirectly, the trust will terminate and all funds will transfer to the foundation.”

“This is too much,” I said, on my feet and pacing.

“It’s your father’s last will and testament,” Hambly said, correcting me. “His dying wish. Few would complain after hearing that fifteen million would be theirs to play with. Try to look at it from that perspective.”

“There’s only one perspective here, Clarence, my father’s, and it’s twisted as hell.” The older lawyer started to speak, but I cut him off, watching his face redden as my voice rose and my respect for the rules of his house vanished. “Ezra Pickens was a twisted, manipulating bastard who never gave two shits for his own daughter and cared just a shade more than a rat’s ass for me. Right now, he’s laughing in his fucking grave.” I leaned over Hambly’s desk. I felt spit fly off my lips and didn’t care. “He was a first-class asshole and you can keep his money. You hear me. Keep it!”

I subsided backward as the last words left me. I’d never felt such rage, and it left me spent. For an instant, there was silence, broken only by the slight tremble in the old lawyer’s clenched fists. His voice, when he spoke, was tightly caged.

“I understand that you are under severe stress, so I’ll try to forget your blasphemy, but don’t ever come to this house again.” His eyes hinted at the strength that made him such a good lawyer. “Ever,” he reiterated. “Now, as your father’s attorney and the executor of his estate, I’ll tell you this: The will is valid. It goes into probate tomorrow. You may find that your position on this matter changes as your temper cools. If so, call me—at the office. As a final matter, I’ll tell you something else. I hadn’t planned to, but your behavior has changed my mind. Detective Mills has been to see me. She wanted to see your father’s will.”

If Hambly was watching for a reaction, he wasn’t disappointed. My anger fled, replaced by something less honorable, something cold and slick that coiled in my stomach like a snake. It was fear, and with it in me, I felt naked.

“At first, I denied her, but she returned with a court order.” Hambly leaned closer and spread his hands; he didn’t smile, although I could feel it in him. “I was forced to comply,” he said. “She was intrigued. You might wish to explain to
her
how fifteen million dollars does not interest you.” He straightened and his fingers snapped shut. “Now, my courtesy has come to an end, as has my patience. Any time you wish to offer your apology for desecrating my Sunday rest, I will consider it.” He gestured at the door. “Now, good day to you.”