On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard - Страница 47
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Breathing more easily now, Deem said, "I think— I guess I better have a Valium. I need to calm down."
I nodded.
He managed to stand and wobble into the living room, then staggered left into the rear part of the house.
After a moment, I stood and walked quickly in the direction Deem had gone. The bedrooms were empty. A
door in the short hallway was shut. I knocked. He didn't answer. I tried the knob. Locked.
In an instant, I made a decision I sometimes later regretted. I lifted a leg and sent my shoe crashing hard against the flimsy plywood door. It exploded inward, knocking Deem against the sink, the battery of pills flying out of his mouth and pinging against the mirror like buckshot. He flailed about, grabbing for the pills, but I had him by the collar and dragged him into the living room backwards.
Then to the kitchen, where I bent him over the table and held him there with one hand while I dialed the phone with the other. I glanced at my watch while I dialed. Five after two. There was just enough time. I had another appointment to keep.
26. As I drove Dot Fisher up Moon
Road, we passed two Albany police cruisers and Bowman's blue Dodge parked in front of the Deem house. She asked if I knew what was going on there, and I told her. She was silent for a long time. Then she said, "I'll drop in on Sandra later. She'll probably be needing some help."
We met Dot's attorney in the refrigerated lobby of the Millpond building and rode up together to Crane Trefusis's office. Marlene Compton ushered us into Trefusis's aerie of cool brown sunlight at exactly three o'clock. Dot was wearing electric blue slacks that clashed with the buffs and rusts. Trefusis removed his shades and greeted us with the bemused serenity of a man who knew that, overall, he would get what he wanted.
"Nice of you to drive all the way over here," he said. "I would have been more than happy, of course, to send one of our people out to Moon Road to pick it up."
Dot opened a Price Chopper paper bag and dumped the dollars on Trefusis's desk. "I wanted to present this to you myself," she said. "Please count it."
Trefusis laughed lightly. "No need for that. I know an honest woman when I meet one."
The lawyer produced a document canceling Millpond's option on Dot's property. Dot and Trefusis signed copies of it. Then Trefusis handed over a receipt for the hundred thousand.
"Nice doing business with you, Mrs. Fisher," he said. "Even under these sad and unproductive circumstances."
Dot mumbled something, started to leave the office, then turned and looked back at Trefusis. "I feel sorry for your mother, if she's living," she said. "You're going to make a lot of money, Mr. Trefusis. But otherwise you're not going to amount to much."
The lawyer looked embarrassed and followed Dot out the door. I yelled after them, "I'll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes."
When the door closed, Trefusis said, "Funny old gal. I guess their minds go after a while."
I said, "The reward money. Ten grand. It's mine."
He stuck the stem of his shades in the corner of his mouth and studied me. He said, "That was for bringing Peter Greco back alive. You failed."
He was right. I didn't argue. My impulse was to break his nose, but my head hurt. I now owed Whitney Tarkington a hundred and ten thousand dollars. Fifty thousand had been recovered from Duane Andrus, and Trefusis's fee for catching the graffiti vandal would cover another ten. I still had to come up with an additional fifty thousand dollars by the next afternoon. Timmy was good
for five, and my bank would, at 15 percent interest, make up the rest. Quite a weekend.
Trefusis was blathering on about how tragic the whole affair had been, but how Dot at least was going to be able to keep her beloved farm, and Trefusis had his eye on some acreage being offered for sale at the Christian Brothers retreat area, and in the end everything was going to work out all right for everyone concerned.
"Except for Peter Greco," I said. "And Fenton McWhirter, who's alone now."
"It's unfortunate," he mused. "But it's no one's fault. Not you, not I. A tragic, tragic accident. None of us is to blame."
I told him about Jerry Deem. He went white.
I said, "You knew."
"That's absurd!" he blurted, with no conviction whatever.
"Your pal Murchison, a Millpond partner and chief supplier of construction materials for Millpond projects, mentioned to you in June that he had an accountant with his hand in the till and the authorities were going to have to be called in. When you found out the financial sleight-of-hand artist was the one and only Jerry Deem, you suggested to Murchison that there were other ways of handling it. In fact, you insisted on it. You offered Murchison Dale Overdorf."
His cheek twitched.
"You didn't want to unleash Overdorf on Dot Fisher directly," I said. "You knew how stubborn she was and how much public sympathy would be aroused by the beating of an old lady. If it ever somehow got traced back to you, Millpond would suffer bad PR, bad enough maybe to fatally unravel the deals you had with the planning boards and environmental agencies. But Jerry Deem was another matter, wasn't he?"
Twitch, twitch.
"You could put all the pressure you wanted on Deem without having to worry about his blowing the whistle, and then hope that he would come up with the means, of whatever gruesome sort, for persuading Dot to sell. It nearly worked. Deem, by way of his alternating threats and promises to his family, inadvertently, or advertently, triggered his son Joey into menacing Dot with the graffiti and threatening letters and phone calls. And by Deem's holding out lurid promises of vast wealth to Duane Andrus as soon as Dot Fisher folded and Deem sold his property to you, the kidnapping and death of Peter Greco were set in motion."
His jaw was so tight I thought it might shatter if I touched it. But I'd decided to deal with Trefusis's jaw later, whenever my head stopped throbbing.
"You didn't count, of course, on matters becoming quite so messy as they did," I said. "When you brought me in, the only sacrificial lamb in all of this was supposed to have been Joey Deem. You must have guessed that he was the graffiti artist, and I was to nab him and earn Millpond's goodwill from Dot, who would gratefully relent and sell out, and Joey Deem would get a slap on the wrist as a juvenile offender.
"Except, you blew it, Crane. There was a side of Jerry Deem's life you didn't know about. You didn't check him out well enough and find out just how damaged and volatile a human being you were lighting a fuse under. Deem was more canny and driven in his efforts to cover up certain of his ongoing socially embarrassing affairs than you'll ever dream of being. You found out he was unstable and vulnerable, but not how unstable he was, and that he was beholden to people who were absolutely batty. Murderously so, as it happened. You fucked up, Crane. Royally. As befits your position in what passes for aristocracy in Albany."
He studied me for a long moment, his face frozen in
white rage. Then he spoke. "You're going to the D.A. with this bullshit story?"
"Yep."
A tight little grin. "It'll be laughed out of court. I'll deny it. Murchison will deny there'd ever been an embezzlement. Deem will be certified insane. The judge will chastise you and your faggot friends for wasting the taxpayers' money."
"Could be," I said, getting up. "But you'll get your name in the papers, Crane. Every day for six months. You and your company. So, if you're going to build a shopping mall on the Christian Brothers' land, you'd better do it in the next forty minutes."
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