Inherit the Dead, Page 4

  Perry rubbed at a sudden pain in his side and drove straight ahead. The events of that night were still a blur, and he saw no reason to jog the memory.

  That was the other reason he hated Long Island, at least the eastern end where the rich people lived. The last time he was in the Hamptons was the last time he got shot.

  3

  MARCIA CLARK

  Perry squinted through his windshield, taking in the barren white dunes to his right, the rolling, black ocean to his left, and the vast, gray canopy of sky. As he shifted his gaze back to the wide two-lane highway that had finally emptied out of traffic, he was suddenly conscious of a strange, unsettled feeling.

  Now that he thought about it, the feeling had begun to creep in a while ago, hovering just below consciousness. He again scanned the austere landscape searching for an answer. And found it. Openness. That’s what it was. The sense of near-limitless space. And quiet. No concrete canyons that echoed with eardrum-shattering horns, no teeming-humanity sidewalks. It should have been soothing. Instead, it made him anxious, scared. As though he was floating alone and untethered through space. Perry struggled to rationalize the sensation, reasoned with himself that it was just a reaction to the long stretches of lonely road, but the panic continued to surge. He was barely breathing.

  He quickly rolled down the window and gulped cold, wet blasts of air. The sobering slap brought him back to earth, and he huffed with relief. But the relief brought only disgust. What kind of loser gets freaked by some empty sand dunes? A familiar lead weight sank in his chest. As usual, he’d found yet another way to despise himself. And no sooner had that feeling wormed its way to the surface than the march of Perry’s parade of horribles began: his ruined career on the force, his failed marriage, a daughter he loved dearly but saw only on weekends, and sometimes not even then. He gripped the steering wheel in frustration. He didn’t have time for this now. With an effort that was almost physical, Perry forced his mind to push down the lid on that treasure chest and work on the problem at hand: Julia Drusilla.

  What was her angle? After years as a homicide dick, Perry accepted nothing and no one at face value (his ex-wife used to say he’d been that way long before he was a cop—he’d always tell her he doubted that). Julia Drusilla claimed she wanted the chance to reconnect with her daughter. Perry could identify with the sentiment, but that didn’t mean he believed her. Yet he couldn’t think of any other reason for Julia to want to find her daughter. The usual motive—money—didn’t work. If Angel didn’t turn up in time to sign the papers, the entire inheritance would go to Julia. So as far as Julia’s financial empire went, things only looked rosier if Angel stayed gone.

  On the other hand, if Julia was so bent out of shape by her estrangement from Angel, why wait a year to reach out? And why had it taken everyone two weeks to figure out that they should call in the troops to help find the girl? The pieces didn’t fit. But that didn’t worry him. Not yet. The jigsaw puzzle couldn’t come together when all he had were pieces of sky. With a little luck, the interview he was headed for now would give him at least one central piece of the puzzle: Norman Loki, Angel’s father.

  The fact that Norman Loki had wound up with custody of the girl child had surprised him, no matter what Julia said. In Perry’s case, his lawyer had nixed the idea of even trying for custody. Teenage daughter goes with mom, end of story. He didn’t like it, but given his circumstances, he didn’t have the stones to put up a fight. That didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt . . . badly. He’d been a good father. Hell, a great one. At least he’d tried to be. So maybe that was Julia’s angle: having been knocked for a loop after losing custody—even though she denied it—she finally felt strong enough to fight for her daughter.

  Perry sat with that idea for a few moments, then shook his head. That wasn’t it, either. The steely crone who’d hired him didn’t get “thrown” by much, if anything. And certainly not by loss of custody. When he’d met Julia, he’d been prepared for the rage and recriminations that usually swirled through these family dramas. But there’d been none of that. Julia had been as icy cool as a dry martini.

  Even when it came to a discussion of her ex—a topic almost guaranteed to kick up clouds of wrath—she’d barely reacted. She’d handed him Norman Loki’s information as though she were sharing her prescription for a colonoscopy. No anger, just distaste. The neutrality of her response had intrigued him enough to put in a call the moment he’d left her apartment to a source at the Post, who might have the dirt on their divorce. Only, surprisingly, there was none. The reporter had called him back an hour ago with the news that the divorce had been fairly civilized. No trial, no hearings, but most important, no custody battle. Just a rapid settlement with the bare minimum in court appearances. Lord knew, if anyone had the means to tear into a fight over who gets “baby,” it was Julia Drusilla.

  No, whatever was driving Julia’s current zeal to find her daughter, it wasn’t hurt feelings over custody.

  The shoreline up to that point had been narrow and rocky, uninviting. But now, a sizable stretch of white sand beach came into view, the kind where you see handsome couples strolling hand in hand as if in a Viagra commercial. And signs of civilization were beginning to appear. Homes—okay, mansions—but informal, ranch-style mansions, with wraparound porches and grounds filled with hardy shrubs and squat wild-looking trees, dotted both sides of the highway. As dialed down as these manses were, Perry knew the smallest of them cost at least a few million. And the limited number that occupied the bluffs overlooking the ocean went for a great deal more. Norman Loki had scored one of them.

  Perry spotted the road that led up to Loki’s place just ahead. He pulled off the highway and followed a private lane until it stopped in front of a five-car garage. Only five cars. Nice to know the rich could rough it when they had to. Perry didn’t see any security gates or cameras. But he guessed that made sense. Why would burglars make the trek out to the edge of the world when there was a whole city’s worth of conveniently located marks within walking distance?

  Looking for a place to park, Perry noticed a weather-beaten Jeep whose scarred and pitted paint said it had habitually been left out in the cold. Thinking that Jeep would make good company for his ancient Datsun with its dangling exhaust pipe, Perry parked alongside it. He climbed out and started to lock the doors then looked from the Jeep to the Datsun. He put the keys back in his pocket.

  Out here on the bluff, the wind cut into Perry like an icy blade. He wrapped Nicky’s scarf around his neck and dipped his head to spare his face but willfully left his trench coat open (a wardrobe choice he freely admitted was a bit on the nose, but he liked the zip-out lining feature—currently zipped in).

  The ranch-style house looked to be about ten thousand square feet, judging from the size of its bleached-white facade. Like the other houses in the area, it had a generous veranda that wrapped around the entire perimeter and several large shuttered windows. Just beyond the house, Perry spotted the pool. He climbed the steps to the front door, then stopped and turned to enjoy the view for a moment. The sky and ocean blended to form a vast, seamless gray expanse that made Perry feel smaller than a grain of sand. Oddly, the thought relaxed him.

  Through the door, he heard Jimi Hendrix crooning his mournful version of “Hey Joe.” Perry let his hand hover over the doorbell to listen for a moment. When he finally pushed the button, it played some tune, something sweet and syrupy. Was it “The Impossible Dream,” of all things? Jesus. Luckily, it played for only a few seconds and he got another full minute to listen to Hendrix’s guitar solo. He had just raised his hand to try knocking when he heard a man call out, “Yeah, I’m coming, gimme a sec.”

  Perry instinctively reached for his badge and gun, preparing to bang the door open, then stopped himself. Shook his head. Old habits died hard. Whatever this guy was hiding—and it was a fair assumption he was hiding something—it was unlikely to have anything to do with Angel.

  Thirty seconds later, a man Perry presumed was Norman Loki stood in the doorway.

  In spite of the near-freezing temperature, Loki’s feet were bare. And very well-tended feet they were. At a glance, the rest of him looked equally as well groomed. But his wardrobe choices were a strange, almost dissonant counterpoint. His jeans were holed out and ripped, but they were neatly rolled to a precise few inches above shapely golden, and seemingly hairless ankles. His T-shirt (bearing the bull’s skull logo that even Perry—no big fan of the group—recognized as that of the Grateful Dead, circa 1970s) was thin and faded, but sparkling clean. A silver skull pendant hung from a leather cord around his neck, and an engraved leather cuff snapped around his wrist. Hippie-esque threads on a country-club body just starting to lose its battle against time.

  Perry would’ve tagged Norman’s age at no more than mid-to-late forties had he stopped at the neck, but the face edged his estimate up by about twenty years. Though still blondly handsome, time—and no doubt sun—had leached the bounce from his cheeks, turned the few remaining wisps of hair to straw, and left deep creases in the skin around his large, age-paled blue eyes. Still, there was a gap between body and face that seemed to be commonplace among baby boomers. Perry guessed that meant his own nascent paunch, despite hours spent at the gym, showed he was part of the younger generation. Nice to know all those beer and pizza dinners were good for something.

  Behind Loki, an impressive stack of wood was burning fast and high in a large, brick fireplace. The heat rolling out of it gave Perry welcome relief from the stinging cold wind that whipped behind him.

  Loki peered at him cautiously. “You the PI?”

  “Yep.” Perry held up his ID. “You Norman Loki?”

  “Yeah. Come on in, man. It’s a bitch out there.”

  Julia Drusill
a had obviously called ahead to announce his arrival.

  Perry walked into what he imagined the interior decorators called a “great room,” and he had to admit, it earned its name. Three thousand square feet of gleaming wood floors, thick Oriental rugs, and overstuffed, comfy-looking furniture for sitting, lounging, sleeping, and “hanging.” The high, wood-beamed ceilings gave a sense of spaciousness but also warmth.

  “Get you something to drink?” Loki offered. “Warm you up a little.”

  “Thanks, no,” Perry said, with regret. It would’ve been nice to kick back with a shot of whiskey in front of that blazing fire on a day like this. He supposed he could opt for something wimpy, like tea, but that would only make him miss the whiskey more. “I’m good.”

  He recalled Julia’s comment about her ex-husband: He drinks . . . or did . . . and when he does . . . But he’s stopped drinking . . . at least I think so.

  Norman took his coat and directed him to a pair of matching leather lounge-style chairs with ottomans near the fireplace. Perry sat and immediately found himself sinking back into the down-filled cushions. If he’d been alone, he would’ve been asleep in seconds. He pulled himself up and perched on the edge of the chair. Loki settled into the lounger opposite him and swung his feet up onto the ottoman in one elegant movement. On the wall behind Loki, Perry noticed a framed diploma from Harvard Law School.

  “You still practice?” Perry asked, nodding at the diploma.

  “Ah . . . no, not really. Not anymore.” Loki smiled. “And don’t worry, I never did criminal defense.” His smile twisted with a shrewd look. “Bet you hated those guys.”

  Either Julia Drusilla’s heads-up phone call to Loki had been a lot newsier than she had let on, or he had done a little quick digging into Perry’s bona fides on his own. Perry suspected the former. Loki didn’t seem like the digging type. Unless it was for clams. Perry shrugged. “Most of ’em were okay. They had their jobs; I had mine. So what was your game?”

  “I had a civil rights practice.”

  “Which means?” Perry asked, though knew very well.

  “Employment discrimination, an occasional wrongful death, that sort of thing. I loved it. Cases I could believe in, where I could do some good for the little guy.”

  Perry nodded, but his bullshit meter was ringing. “But you quit because . . . ?”

  Loki sighed. “Because the big corporate lobbies brought in tort reform. Killed my entire practice. Basically shut down the courtrooms for everyone but their cronies.”

  “Gee, that’s a bitch. But I’ve got to hand it to you—those employment discrimination cases are tough. You ever go up against any of the bigs, like IBM or Mercedes-Benz?”

  Loki’s stricken expression told Perry he’d rightly guessed that Loki’s experience went no further than the noble, well-rehearsed speech he’d just given. Unfortunately for him, Perry knew something about the field. When Perry got shamed out of his uniform, a real civil rights lawyer had lobbied hard to get him to file suit against the department. She was convinced he’d been framed and was gung ho to prove it. Perry had thought about it, had wanted to get the chance to go public with the truth. It didn’t bother him that it would be an ugly street brawl of a trial. What did was the knowledge that he couldn’t win—on any level. The fix was in, the truth didn’t matter, and it probably would never even be known, given the kind of press coverage he’d get. So ultimately, he’d declined. But in the process, he’d learned a few things about employment discrimination cases—as the man squirming across from him had just found out the hard way.

  Loki licked his lips and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Uh . . . no, not really. I guess you could say I handled the less . . . complicated cases.”

  Or, Perry thought, you could say that Loki is a bald-faced liar. But Loki’s nervous retreat made it clear he knew he’d been busted. All to the good. Nothing like a little shaming to inspire honesty. “How’d you and Julia cross paths?”

  Loki’s eyes darted anxiously around the room, managing to hit everywhere but the place where Perry was sitting. “A dinner for new associates. I started out at Schilling, Stearns and Castleman.”

  Perry recognized the name. It was a high-power, multinational corporate firm. The kind only Harvard Law grads with big connects got into. The kind that represented those Goliath corporations Loki had just declaimed.

  “So you met Julia shortly after you passed the bar?”

  Loki took a deep breath and stretched his legs. “Yep. Married for thirty-two glorious, fun-filled years.” Though Loki said it with a tinge of irony, his voice held no rancor. In fact, Perry thought, his tone seemed a little wistful.

  “Whose idea was it, the divorce?”

  Loki turned toward the fire. Without meeting Perry’s eyes, he replied, “It was what you might call a mutually agreed upon parting of the ways.”

  Should Perry pursue the issue? Loki and Julia Drusilla’s relationship might be relevant to Angel’s disappearance, but then again, it might not. Before he could make up his mind, Loki leaned forward, his face tight. “Look, you’re not, like, a real cop anymore, right?”

  Perry tried not to wince. The admission still had the power to wound. “No.”

  “It’s just that, this whole situation . . . it’s got me kind of stressed out. I really need to power down, man.”

  “Have at it,” Perry said. Relaxed meant talkative. Fine by him.

  Loki moved to the fireplace and reached under a framed photo of the Beatles (autographed by all four) walking barefoot at Abbey Road. It swung open to reveal a safelike cavity. Only there were no stock certificates or bundles of cash. There was just a large-size ziplock baggie of weed, an assortment of pipes, and one multicolored, blown-glass bong. Loki took out a small brass pipe and held up the baggie in silent invitation.

  Apparently Norman Loki had exchanged the booze for the bong.

  Perry’d always hated the stuff. It made him paranoid. And slow. And it stank. “No, thanks. But by all means . . . ”

  After three long, loving tokes, Loki slid back in his chair and put his feet up. His eyes were red but a lot less darty. “Now where were we?”

  “We were just chatting about what caused your divorce.”

  “Oh, right.” That wistful tone again. “Let’s just say we found we had one too many things in common.”

  Perry waited, hoping the old trick of silence would make Loki jump in to fill the gap. But Loki wasn’t jumping anywhere. His gaze drifted complacently over Perry’s right shoulder and out through the window to the dark ocean. Perry sighed. Note to self: next time a witness says he needs to relax, hum something by Enya.

  “I understand Angel’s been missing for two weeks?”

  “Yeah.” Loki pulled his attention back with an effort. “Last time I saw her, she said she was going up to Hartford to see a showing with Lilith.”

  “Does Lilith have a last name?”

  “Bates. She’s Angel’s latest BFF.”

  Perry would follow up on that shortly. “And what was the showing of?”

  “Art. Something modern, I think. Lilith is an artist.” Loki’s mouth curved in a smirk. “ ‘She don’t look back.’ ” He glanced at Perry. “That’s—”

  “Bob Dylan, yeah, I know. Did Angel tell you where they were staying up there?”

  Loki’s expression sobered. “I know where she said they were staying. The Sheraton. But when I couldn’t reach her on her cell, I called the hotel, and they said no one by that name had ever checked in.”

  “I assume you also checked under Lilith’s name.”

  Loki gave Perry a look that said he was stoned, not a stoned idiot.

  “Have you been able to reach Lilith?”

  “I called her right after I called the hotel. She said she hadn’t gone to Hartford, didn’t know of any art showing, and didn’t recall Angel ever saying she was going there. Said she hadn’t seen Angel since . . . I guess it would be the day I last saw her.”

  “So Lilith and Angel are close? How long have they known each other?”

  Loki squinted. “A year? Probably less.” Loki shook his head. “Angel goes through BFFs the way Limbaugh goes through oxy. Always has. I give their little ‘womance’ six months tops before Angel gets tired of her.”