Inherit the Dead, Page 5

  Pretty tough talk for a dad whose daughter was missing. But it was probably the most honest answer he’d given so far.

  “You think Angel might be a little . . . flighty?” Perry asked.

  Loki sighed. “In all fairness, probably no more than any other spoiled rich girl would be in her situation. But to just disappear this way . . . ” Loki’s mouth turned down.

  “Has she ever done this before?”

  “Not for this long. She’d fall off the radar for a day, maybe three days. But never more than that.”

  “When was the last time?”

  Loki stared off until Perry was ready to knock on his head to see if anyone was home, but finally, he continued. “About a year ago. She was supposed to go to her cousin’s wedding in Boston. Instead, she wound up in Woodstock. Never even made it to the reception. No heads-up, no apologies.”

  “How’d you find her?”

  “She eventually called. But it took a while, which worried me because I’d been leaving messages on her cell and she never turns it off. Keeps that thing glued to her side twenty-four/seven. Every time I called, it went straight to voice mail. Three days after the wedding, she finally got in touch. Said she couldn’t call before because there was no signal where they were staying.”

  “Did you believe her?”

  Loki shrugged. “Why would she make something like that up?”

  Perry thought, Because sliding up to Woodstock and missing her cousin’s wedding might have been the least of it? But it was a year too late for that talk.

  “Woodstock,” Perry said. “Does she usually go in for retro, hippie stuff like that?” Perry watched the other man for a grin, a raised eyebrow, some sign of recognition about apples and their proximity to the trees they fall from. Nada.

  “Not necessarily. Angel’s just . . . adventuresome.”

  “Does she go to school?”

  Loki’s face brightened. “Sure did. She went to Vassar. Graduated in three years. With honors.” He stood up. “I’m parched. You sure you don’t want anything to drink? Water?”

  “Sure, water’s fine.”

  When Loki returned with two large crystal glasses of water, Perry asked, “Graduated in three years with honors? That’s quite a feat.” Especially for the girl Loki had just described.

  Loki settled back into his chair, took a long swallow of water, and nodded. “She’s definitely got brains. And obviously discipline, too—when it suits her.” An edge of disappointment slid under the pride in his voice.

  “But?”

  “But it turned out the only thing she really cared about was getting done with school as soon as possible. She kept her grades up because she knew that if she didn’t, she’d get hell from me.”

  “Not from her mother?”

  “They rarely spoke.”

  Loki glanced at the side table where he’d set down his pipe. Perry knew if he picked it up, their interview was over. He was about to knock his glass of water onto the floor to distract him, but Loki left the pipe alone and continued.

  “Ever since she graduated last year, it’s been one long party.” Loki paused, shook his head.

  The irony of Loki making a remark like that almost made Perry laugh out loud. He stifled the impulse by taking a long drink of water, then asked his next question. “And Angel doesn’t have any real expenses, right? She doesn’t pay rent here?”

  “No.”

  “So who does?”

  Loki’s shoulders dropped, and he stared into the fire. “I have some investments . . . ”

  “Might some folks call those investments ‘child support’?”

  Loki shot a look at Perry out of the corner of his eye, then turned to stare into the flames. Busted—again—he didn’t even try to argue.

  For a few moments, the only sounds were the crackle and pop of the wood. A log rolled off the top, and Loki picked up a poker and shoved it back away from the screen.

  When he sat down, he dropped his head into his hands. “Having to call Julia last week and tell her that I’d basically lost our daughter was one of the worst days of my life.” When he finally met Perry’s gaze, his face was haggard. “Look, I know I wasn’t the best dad, but I wasn’t the worst, either. I may have been a little too permissive. But one thing I can say for sure: Angel always knew I loved her, which was a lot more than Julia—” Loki stopped abruptly.

  “So there never was any love lost between those two?”

  Loki pressed his lips together. “Honestly, I don’t know. The dynamic between mothers and daughters . . . it’s always complicated, isn’t it? You have kids?”

  “I do. But my daughter isn’t about to inherit a fortune.”

  Loki’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

  Perry studied him for a long moment. “You don’t know that Angel gets access to a sizable trust fund on her twenty-first birthday?”

  Loki sat forward. “This is the first I’ve ever heard of it.”

  Perry’s bullshit meter was ringing again, though he wasn’t sure why the man would bother to lie. Maybe he was pretending to be shocked so no one would think he’d been Mr. Cool, Permissive Dad all those years in order to curry favor with his soon-to-be-stinkin’-rich daughter. Or, on a more sinister note, maybe there was something in it for Norman Loki if Angel didn’t claim her share of the inheritance. Perry was going to have to drill down on the exact terms of that trust fund. Loki’s reaction didn’t ring true. It seemed a little . . . forced, over the top. Perry waited, hoping silence would lure him into saying something he’d regret. Frequently, silence was the best interrogator. But after several moments went by without a word, Perry was forced to concede it wasn’t working this time.

  Perry replied, “That’s actually part of the reason Julia wants Angel to be found right away. Angel has to sign the papers on her twenty-first birthday to get that money.”

  Loki broke into a laugh. And not a little chuckle, either. A big, hefty, belly shaking, “Ha-ha-ha.”

  “I take it you don’t believe that,” Perry said. “According to Julia, she doesn’t need Angel’s share of the money.”

  When his laughter had scaled down to a few stray chortles, Loki responded. “Oh, no doubt that’s true. Julia’s got more money than the Vatican. I just find it difficult to believe in this sudden . . . well, never mind.”

  Perry didn’t want to never mind, but Loki had made it clear he wouldn’t share any more than he had to about his ex-wife. His protective attitude toward her was puzzling . . . or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just a wise decision not to bite the hand that fed him. And was probably still feeding him.

  “I’ll need Angel’s cell phone number—” Perry said.

  “Of course. I’ll write it down for you.” Loki stood.

  “And while you’re at it, I’ll need Lilith’s information, too.”

  Loki nodded. “Good idea.” Loki went over to a small writing desk against the wall, wrote down the information.

  He gave Perry the piece of paper, then held out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Christo—”

  Perry shook his hand. “Call me Perry.”

  “Perry. Whatever you may think of . . . all this, I am extremely worried about Angel.”

  At that moment, the doorbell chimed its absurd little tune. “That’ll be my trainer.” Loki retrieved Perry’s coat from the couch and handed it to him. “Whatever you need, please feel free to call me.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  Loki opened the door to reveal one of the few men Perry had ever seen who truly deserved to be described as an Adonis. Well over six feet tall, with wavy, shoulder-length blond hair and pecs so large they showed through his waffle shirt. The warm smile he’d aimed at Loki turned to puzzlement when he saw Perry.

  Loki quickly introduced them, and the man recovered his one-hundred-watt smile. After enduring his bone-crushing handshake, Perry bid them farewell. The moment the door closed, he wiggled his fingers to work out the kinks from that death grip.

>   As Perry turned to go, he heard the two men laughing. He slowly walked down the porch steps then stopped. It seemed odd that a worried father would have a trainer come out at a time like this. Odder still that he’d be in the mood to laugh. About anything.

  As he drove down the private road back toward the highway, Perry mentally replayed his interview with Loki, the aging, dependently wealthy hipster. A bit of a poser, a big doper, but a kidnapper? A killer? Hard to believe. Then again, how could a lawyer not know about his own daughter’s inheritance? And if he did know, why lie about it?

  Perry sighed as he turned onto the empty highway. The interview that was supposed to give him a central piece of the puzzle had instead only delivered more questions. The scream of a lone seagull pierced the sky above him. Perry looked up and nodded. “Yeah, I’m with you, buddy.”

  You don’t have to drive down the road to find out why the private eye has come here and who he’s come to see because you know exactly who he is talking to.

  You wait by the side of the road, car under the trees, hidden in the shadows, trying to imagine their conversation while you gnaw on a PowerBar to keep up your energy. You’ve got a whole bag of them, plus apples and juice boxes. You’re prepared.

  You think about all those mansions you’ve passed, the way these people live, and you’re going to have it, too, because you deserve it, and you don’t care who gets hurt. Somebody always gets hurt, but not you, not this time.

  You’re trying to picture it, your new life, when the PIs junk heap of a car comes rattling back down the private lane and he’s so damn preoccupied he doesn’t even look your way, just turns onto the main road, and you wait a couple of minutes so as not to arouse suspicion then turn the key in the ignition and follow under a sky with low dark clouds like filthy rags and feel a kind of electricity coursing through your body, hands tingling on the steering wheel because this is what you’ve been waiting for.

  4

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  It didn’t take Perry long to reach his next destination.

  The afternoon sky over the Hamptons was darker now, an icy rain just beginning as he headed down the long drive.

  The minute Perry Christo walked into Lilith Bates’s studio, one thought came into his mind.

  Wannabe.

  She had made the third floor of her lavish East Hampton mansion into her work space, and it appeared that she had worked hard to create the image of the artistic recluse; canvases were everywhere. She’d studied the studios of others, and she’d had the house revamped to create magnificent, floor-to-ceiling windows and skylights for her work. She had all the proper utensils for her craft, palettes of oils and watercolors, cabinets with half-opened drawers spilling over with brushes, paint thinners, pens, pencils—every artistic supply an artist could ever want.

  Trust-fund baby turned artist!

  The Bates’s butler had walked him up, and he knew that she was expecting him, even though she pretended to have completely forgotten he was coming.

  One thing he would say for her—Lilith was beautiful.

  She was dressed in a form-hugging tank top and knit pants; a white smock blouse—artfully splashed with paint—was carelessly worn over her clothing. She was slender—it seemed that being slender was a requisite in the area. But she also had curves, and the black tank and knit pants revealed that the woman didn’t seem to have an ounce of fat or extra skin—surely carbs never passed her full, well-formed lips.

  She was, he believed, thirty-plus, and maybe plus, but whatever plastic surgery she had endured had been done with greater artistry than that seen on any of her canvases.

  She looked up from her current work in progress as the butler led him in.

  “Mr. Perry Christo, mum,” the butler announced. The butler had already made Perry feel as if he had stepped into an old black-and-white English film on the aristocracy. He was dead straight, didn’t crack a smile, and wore an impeccable tux. Maybe that was what butlers really did—walk around in impeccable tuxes and look good and stiff.

  Hmm. If the guy were a stiff, he might not look much different.

  “Oh, dear! That was fast. You just called.”

  “I did say fifteen or twenty minutes, didn’t I?”

  “It seemed like only a moment ago. I’m a mess.”

  She is anything but, thought Perry.

  Lilith seemed disconcerted as she set her brush on the palette, rose from the chair she’d been sitting in before her canvas, and walked—no, sailed, and quite regally—over to him. She extended a hand—a perfectly manicured, soft hand—and smiled.

  “How do you do, Mr. Christo. It is Mr., right? It’s my understanding you’re a private investigator, and not a detective? I seldom see people, but you did sound as if you had such passion when you called!”

  The way she smiled at him—like a grinning bobcat about to pounce—he wondered if she had looked him up, if she knew about his past, too.

  “Yes, it’s Mr. Christo. But please, call me Perry,” he said.

  Her smiled deepened. She assessed him as he stood there. He felt a little like a cut of meat at a butcher’s shop. But maybe it was important. He took some of his frustrations and his anger—mostly at himself—out on gym equipment. That might stand him well today.

  Though at the moment, the way she was looking at him, he felt like some male escort. Clearly, she had deigned to see him because she was curious.

  “Call me Lilith,” she told him. “Jeeves, we’ll take champagne, please,” she said to the butler, not bothering to look his way.

  The butler’s name is really Jeeves?

  “None for me, thank you,” Perry said.

  “Oh, Mr. Christo—Perry!” she said. “Indulge me. Obviously you’re here because you want something from me. That does mean that you should humor all my whims.”

  He didn’t say yes or no; the butler with the improbable name silently turned and disappeared.

  “Do come on in, Perry,” Lilith said with a broad sweep of her hand. At the one end of her studio was a settee with a small table before it. She indicated that he should sit.

  As he walked toward the settee, he looked at her work. Lilith took the concept of “abstract” to the extreme. Splotches of color adorned most of the canvases.

  “What do you think?” she asked him.

  He smiled. “I once went to a showing at the Guggenheim,” he told her.

  “And?”

  “They had just spent an incredible sum on a painting called Black.”

  “And does my work remind you of that priceless piece of art?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “It was black.”

  “Ah, but art is in the texture, in the subtext! What was the artist saying?” she asked.

  “That he’d gotten a lot of black paint?”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Well, of course, you were a cop. You were, right, at one time?” she asked, her smile dazzling. Her lips were generous and well formed, rich. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, and they set in her perfectly chiseled face like twin beacons of mischief. One of her elegant ringed hands moved in the air with an expression of patience. “One doesn’t expect someone unschooled in the arts to understand.”

  He blinked, willing himself to keep his face impassive, and quickly put himself in check; he wanted information out of this woman, and despite his inclination, he smiled and said, “Actually, I was lucky. My mother was an illustrator for a series of children’s books. She loved art—she would have loved to see your work. You’re exactly right; great art is usually in the subtext.

  “And Lilith, you are following along the lines of some magnificent work in the Hamptons. Why, two of the finest leaders of abstract expressionism—action painting—lived, worked, and even died here. Willem de Kooning moved to the Springs section of East Hampton in 1963 and died there at the ripe old age of ninety-two. His wife, Elaine, who did JFK’s official painting, came and went, living with him sometimes even after they divorced. Then there was Jackson Polloc
k. He moved here to the Springs, and, we know, poor devil died in a car crash. His wife, Lee Krasner, was an artist, too. You’re in the perfect place.” He quietly thanked his mother for his art education.

  “My, my, my—Perry. You do know something—about the Hamptons, and about art,” she said, slipping her arm through his. She pressed close. He could feel the rise of her breasts against his upper arm.

  He paused by one of her paintings, hoping he didn’t choke on his words. “This . . . this is magnificent. The blues . . . I can’t claim to know everything, but in the drip of the paint, in the sweep of the colors, I see something of Dalí. I’m seeing the ocean merge into the sky. And the dots . . . people, like ants, moving about and never seeing that they’re all part of something grand. They’re far too busy in their little lives to realize that earth and sky meet, and yet there . . . your lone voyeur—she sees it all, and she sees herself melting into earth and sky sadly, so aware that she’s but a speck of sand or a grain of salt in the ocean.”

  Lilith looked at him and then at her painting. “You do have a deep soul, Perry. I’m so glad you like my work.”

  “It’s brilliant,” he lied. Quite frankly, the painting looked like smudges of blue and green with some black dots sprinkled throughout.

  “You’ve voiced my work with greater empathy than I might have managed myself,” she murmured.

  Of course he had. She’d had no idea of what she’d been painting. And neither did he.

  “Do sit down, please, and tell me why you’ve come, why you wanted to see me.”

  She led him to the settee. He sat at one end. She draped herself at the other but in a way that brought her leaning close to him.

  Jeeves cleared his throat and tapped at the door. He carried a silver tray with a silver ice bucket and crystal champagne flutes.

  “Shall I pour, mum?”

  “Yes, please do, Jeeves,” Lilith said. She had one arm leaned on the back of the settee. Her legs were half curled beneath her. She wore the white shirt open, and the mounds of her breasts generously spilled above the scoop of her tank top.