Inherit the Dead, Page 2

  “There are a few others you can’t see unless you go out there, and more at my homes in Palm Beach and Aspen, though I rarely go to either anymore.” She sighed, a bony, perfectly manicured hand at her throat. “They’re all Roman, late empire. The early and mid period are impossible to find; the museums have greedily scooped them up. But I’m happy with the sculptures I have. They remind me that people die but culture lives on.”

  “Can I borrow that for my tombstone?”

  Julia Drusilla peered at him, her gray eyes narrowed. “Is that a joke?”

  “Sorry,” said Perry. “Not a very good one.

  “No,” she said, with a flicker of anger before she gazed back at the terrace. “You may go out there, if you’d like, to see the sculptures. I never do. I’m not a fan of heights.”

  “Then why—”

  “Live in a penthouse on the twenty-fourth floor?” She smiled for a half second, translucent skin tugging away from large, capped teeth. “It was my husband’s—my ex-husband’s idea—and I got used to it, but . . . ” She seemed lost for a moment then focused on Perry. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Another joke?”

  “ ’Fraid so.”

  Julia Drusilla frowned. “You’re younger and better looking. I imagined a private detective would be some sort of tough guy with a greasy little mustache and bad shoes.”

  Perry looked down at his old police dress shoes. They’d been good years back but not so good now, though they’d apparently passed some small test.

  He glanced up and past Julia at a large abstract painting. “Pollock?”

  “Yes,” she said, and cast a reappraising eye at him. “You really aren’t the typical private detective, are you?”

  “My mother was an artist. Well, sort of.”

  “How nice for you,” she said, brittle edging on bitter. “Mine was . . . ” She shook her head and looked back at the painting. “I bought it at auction, at Sotheby’s, just last week.”

  “Oh yes, I read about the sale.” Perry couldn’t remember the exact price, but it had been newsworthy. Front page. It had set a record for a Jackson Pollock painting, something astronomical, in the millions; the buyer’s name undisclosed.

  “You’re a very observant man.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Good,” she said, giving him another look, this one impossible to read. “Would you care for something, Detective, coffee or tea?”

  “If you have coffee, sure. I can’t seem to shake the chill.”

  “Oh. It’s the air-conditioning. The illness raises my temperature, so I keep it on all the time. I’m afraid I hardly feel it.” She waved a hand at her face as if to cool it further. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No,” he said, stifling a shiver.

  “So, coffee . . . ” she said, a bewildered look entering her eyes. “Actually, I’m afraid my maid doesn’t come in until ten, and I’m lost without her.”

  “No then—please don’t. I’m fine.”

  “I don’t drink it myself. How about tea? I think I can boil water.”

  Next thing Perry knew he was on one of the low sofas, balancing a cup of something herbal and lemony on his knee; Julia Drusilla was sitting opposite, bony fingers tapping against a china cup that looked almost, though not quite, as fragile as she was.

  “That portrait, the one above your—”

  “My father,” she said.

  “An impressive-looking man.”

  “Yes. He died some years ago, along with my mother, in a tragic accident.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I hate it when people apologize for things that have nothing to do with them.”

  “I wasn’t taking responsibility, merely expressing—”

  She waved his explanation away. “I don’t have time for niceties, Detective. I’m not a well woman.”

  “So you said.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. But you look . . . fine.”

  “I look like death and know it.” She made a noise in the back of her nose. “You should have seen me when I was young. I was beautiful once. Can you believe that?”

  “You’re still a beautiful woman,” he said, and it was true, though the beauty had ossified.

  “And you’re a liar, but a charming one. Though you must always be truthful with me.”

  “I usually am.”

  “Except when you are flattering an older woman or trying to save someone the pain of bad news?”

  “A little of both,” said Perry.

  “Well, don’t ever lie to me. Not ever. I have been lied to enough in my life, and I won’t tolerate it.” Her gray eyes had gone cold and steely, her mouth set tight. Perry noticed her hands had balled into fists, as if getting ready to strike.

  “I don’t care much for lies or liars myself.

  “Good,” she said, the harsh glint of metal in her eyes giving way to something a bit less threatening, though Perry hadn’t missed it. “Then we understand each other.”

  “Indeed.” Perry nodded, though he allowed his stare to mimic just a bit of her rigidity before changing the subject. “So, your daughter. She disappeared from where, exactly?”

  “From her father’s Montauk home. According to Norman, he has not seen her for almost two weeks.” Julia Drusilla was now up and pacing.

  “I’ll need the exact time of her disappearance.”

  “You can get that from Norman. I imagine you will want to speak to him.”

  “Yes. And your husband didn’t call the police, didn’t report your daughter missing?”

  “No. He called me. Which was the right thing to do.” Her voice took on strength.

  “Tell me more about your daughter. Anything that will help me find her.” Perry plucked a pad and pen from his pocket.

  “Well, Angelina, Angel, has been living with her father, my ex-husband, since our divorce.”

  “Your husband got custody?” Perry tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. A father getting custody was a big deal; he knew that from experience.

  “Not exactly. We determined together—my husband and I—what was better for Angel. Ours was not one of those acrimonious divorces. Angel’s happiness was all that mattered.” She ran one of her long fingers along the edge of her too-sharp jaw. “You’re not married, are you, Detective?”

  “No.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Children?”

  “I have a daughter,” he said, wondering how this had become an interview, one he was on the wrong side of. “She lives with her mother.”

  “Of course she does. Always the way, isn’t it? Well, almost always.” She stopped pacing and sagged into one of the low couches just opposite, as if the conversation was suddenly too much for her.

  Perry wondered if she was acting. Everything about her seemed theatrical.

  “How old was Angel when you and your husband divorced?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

  “Fourteen. She was such a headstrong girl at the time. Of course she always was, but particularly then. Perhaps the divorce was somewhat to blame: the strain and—”

  “I thought you said the divorce was amicable?”

  “But I did not say it was easy. And teenagers can be difficult.”

  Perry nodded, though he’d give anything to have his teenage daughter around twenty-four/seven, difficult or not.

  “We considered boarding school, and in retrospect I think it would have been a better choice for her.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Norman is far too lenient. He spoils Angel. And he has problems.”

  “Such as?”

  She sighed. “They’re under control now.”

  “I need to know if—”

  “I said they are under control.” The steel was back in her eyes—and her voice.

  “Mrs. Drusilla.” Perry spoke quietly and chose his words carefully. “If I’m going to find your daughter, I need to know everything.”

  “Norman would never do anything to harm Angel. It’s just that—” A short intake of breath. “He drinks. Or did. And when he does—Well, you’ve never seen such a personality change. It’s quite”—she shook her head—“extraordinary.”

  “Is that the reason you two—”

  “Divorced? No. It had nothing to do with that,” she said, hard. “But he’s stopped drinking. At least I think so, hope so.” Then more quietly, “All I was saying is that if Norman had been tougher, Angel might not have disappeared without a word. He doesn’t lay down any rules.”

  “What about your rules?”

  “I’m afraid I have little say over what Angel does. She doesn’t live here, remember?”

  “But you’re her mother.”

  “I repeat: she does not live here. I cannot be a disciplinarian from a distance, and Angel . . . well, we don’t see each other very often.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “We have not seen each other in . . . ” She looked up at ceiling. “I can’t say for certain but . . . probably close to a year.”

  “A year?”

  “Yes. Give or take a few . . . weeks.”

  “That’s a long time. Did you have a fight?”

  “No. We just . . . don’t get along very well. The distance is good for us.” She sighed. “I’d hoped Angel would grow out of her rebellious phase—all teenage girls have issues with their mothers, don’t they, Detective? Lord knows I gave my poor mother a terrible time. But Angel can’t seem to get past it.”

  “So you did argue.”

  “In the past. But not anymore. It’s hard to argue when you rarely speak.”

  “I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do, Detective.” She leaned closer, her breath minty with a hint of something medicinal. “Despite our disagreements, I am her mother, and I love her very much. And I believe down deep she loves me, too. One day—soon, I hope—she will come to realize how much I love her.” She sniffed as if she was fighting tears, but her eyes were perfectly clear, her tone clipped. “It’s why I must find her. Why you must find her.” She laid a bony hand on Perry’s. It was cold and dry. “I don’t have much time, and I need to make things right between us, need to . . . ” Her breathing became labored, a wheezing sound, as if there was cotton wadding in her nose and throat.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Y-yes. Or . . . I will be once you find my daughter and bring her back to me.”

  Bring her back? But she was never here.

  She took deep breaths, a hand to her throat. “All I know is that she is gone and no one has heard from her. I’m frightened, Detective.”

  Perry tried to read her face, but it was flat, expressionless. “You said that your daughter often took off, wandered, so there’s probably no reason to suspect anything is wrong—or is there?”

  She looked away, and when she turned back there was something ferocious in her eyes though she spoke calmly, “No. There’s nothing. Nothing at all.” She continued to stare at him, not speaking.

  Perry let the quiet expand between them. Something he’d learned as a cop: let the suspect fill the uncomfortable void.

  And she did. “There’s something you should know, Detective. Angel will be twenty-one in less than two weeks, at which time she will come into a sizable fortune.”

  “I see. And Angel knows this?”

  “No. At least I never told her. Of course she knew she would get money, my money, which is considerable, though she has a small, serviceable income of her own. I thought it best she not spend her youth knowing she would come into tremendous wealth. I did not want money to stifle her need to work, to grow as a human being. It’s better to come into money later and not know about it, don’t you agree, Detective?”

  “Sure,” said Perry. “Though I wouldn’t know.”

  “Well, I do. Money can make one lazy, even corrupt.”

  Money can make people do all sorts of things, thought Perry.

  “All Angel has to do is sign some papers and the money is hers. I would not have waited until the last minute, but the trust stipulates that she sign on her twenty-first birthday. Not a day earlier—or later. A ridiculous technicality, but I suppose it was put there in the event that”—she heaved a sigh—“that Angel was not alive on her twenty-first birthday. My God, what a horrid thought.”

  “And if she doesn’t sign?”

  “The trust remains entirely with me. We are meant to split what remains of my father’s money, which he put in trust for his heirs.”

  “Let me get this straight. If Angel signs, she gets half the money.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if she doesn’t, you get it all.”

  “Yes.” She painted on a smile. “I see what you’re thinking, Detective. That I might want to keep all of the money for myself.”

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  “Please. I have more money than I know what to do with. And I’m dying.” Her eyes locked on his. “Why would I want you to find my daughter if I wanted to keep her money?”

  Perry didn’t know, but he let the question sit there.

  “Another two or three hundred million makes no difference to me.”

  “Which is it?”

  “Which is what?” She stood up and shook out her arms, then started to pace again, her white tunic floating behind her. She looks like a ghost, Perry thought.

  “Two or three hundred million?”

  She stopped pacing and looked at him. “I’m not sure. Does it really matter?”

  “We’re talking about a lot of money.”

  “I suppose.” Julia Drusilla shrugged her bony shoulders. “I just want Angel to have what is rightfully hers—to have the life she was meant to have, the freedom to do whatever she wants. Money can buy freedom, Detective.” She started pacing again, tapping her bony hand against her thigh as she did.

  “I can imagine,” said Perry, and almost corrected himself: he could not imagine. He was trying to think it through: a girl about to inherit a fortune who disappears. Did she know—or didn’t she?

  “Is there anyone who might benefit if Angel doesn’t sign those papers?”

  Julia Drusilla stopped pacing again. “None who I know of.”

  “But there could be?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said none who you know of, but could there be someone out there you don’t know of?”

  “Like who?”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Norman? That’s ridiculous. He’s perfectly comfortable. His needs are well taken care of. I’ve seen to that.”

  “Two or three hundred million dollars can fulfill even more needs.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Norman adores Angel. And he has plenty of money.” Her voice went hard then softened, and she came closer, her hand on his hand again.

  An air-conditioned breeze grazed the back of Perry’s neck, and he shivered—or was it Julia Drusilla’s touch?

  “Anyone else?” he asked.

  “No. No one.”

  “If Angel doesn’t sign the papers, do you still get your half of the money?”

  She let her hand drop from his. “It may take a bit longer but . . . yes.”

  “That must be a relief.”

  “I’ve already told you, Detective, the money means nothing to me.” She stared at him, her gray eyes a mix of steely and needy that made Perry uncomfortable. “You will find her, won’t you?”

  “I’ll need a picture.” Perry glanced around the room; there wasn’t a single photograph anywhere.

  Julia disappeared down a hallway then reappeared with a wallet-size photo, a portrait, the girl’s face filling it.

  “Does she always look like this?” Perry asked.

  “You mean, does it look like her?”

  “Yes.”

  “It does.”

  Perry studied the photo: Angel’s hair looked like gold, her eyes a startling shade of blue. There was something old-fashioned about her, too, something that brought to mind movie stars of the 1940s and ’50s, her hooded eyes and the way the corners of her lips tipped up into a sly Kewpie-doll smile.

  “She’s a beautiful girl,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Julia. “Very beautiful. Everybody says so.” The veins in her neck stood out.

  Perry took one more look at the photo then slipped it into his pocket, feeling as if he’d accepted something forbidden.

  “Well then, you have everything you need,” said Julia. She folded her thin arms across her chest and glanced at the hallway, his cue to leave.

  He stood up, once again noticed the Jackson Pollock painting, and wondered why someone would buy a multimillion-dollar painting when she was about to die.

  Julia led him toward the door.

  “Your husband’s address?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She wrote it down on a piece of lavender notepaper and placed it in his palm, her bony hand wrapping around his. “Find her, Mr. Christo. Bring my Angel back to me.”

  One more time, thought Perry, it was not a question.

  You sit in the rental car you can’t afford, not yet, but soon, soon, waiting outside her fancy apartment for almost an hour now, freezing, the heat switched off to save on gas, and finally he comes out in that ratty trench coat. Almost makes you laugh. I mean, Is he kidding? A private eye in a trench coat? What a fucking cliché. But this is no laughing matter.

  You straighten up, concentrate on what you have to do: follow him. Not easy, following someone who is on foot, in your car, in the city, taxis and buses and people cutting ahead of you, and you don’t dare use the horn and bring attention to yourself, worrying he will spot you.

  Then he stops beside a parked car, fumbles keys out of his pocket, his striped scarf blowing in the wind like a banner.

  You pull into a bus stop, hoping a traffic cop does not come by, and you watch from a half block away, sipping your third black coffee of the morning, holding the damn Styrofoam cup so tight it cracks and coffee leaks onto your hand and into your lap and you’re trying to mop it up, cursing, and keep an eye on him at the same time, and suddenly he’s driving away and you forget the damn coffee, pull out of the bus stop so fast you practically hit a taxi, the driver laying on his horn so loud you’re sure the private eye can hear so you duck, keeping your head down but peering over the steering wheel, afraid you will lose him, telling yourself to be calm, to breathe, to watch, your eyes like lasers taking in the scratches on the trunk and his license plate, which you memorize, just in case, as you creep down Second Avenue, keeping a few cars between you, the way people do in the movies. But then the traffic eases and he’s driving fast, weaving around cars, but no way you’re going to lose him because this is the most important thing you ever did in your life so it doesn’t matter if you’ve got hot coffee soaking your lap or that your head is aching and your eyes itch from too little sleep and your heart pounds from all the caffeine because it’s finally happening: it’s not just a dream anymore.