Fortunes of the Dead (21 page)

It was Rick's suggestion that I use his office. I had asked if I could meet with Brady in one of the empty rooms downstairs, but Rick had run away with the idea—no surprise—and not only was I sitting at Rick's enormous leather-top desk (the shorter the man, the bigger the desk? Rick was no more than five-five) but Rick was primed and ready to be my secretary. He had dressed up. No jeans, but rather elegant, wool-blend black trousers and a black cashmere sweater. Rick looks very striking in black, which is why he'd chosen the slacks and sweater from “costume,” otherwise known as his walk-in closet.

I was spinning in Rick's chair, managing to circle three times on the power of one good push, when the office door opened. Rick had wandered out to make coffee, and he threw up his hands when he saw me and gave me an exasperated look. His other looks include
wounded feelings; brave martyrdom; twisted amusement; hopeless love; murderous rage; sleazy thoughts;
and
sudden perception
. There are more, but these are his best ones. I know because I was the one he practiced on when the looks were in development.

“Would this be pointless?” he asked.

I propped my feet up on the desk. “Would what be pointless?”

“The trouble I am going to so you will look the part—successful, cutting-edge private investigator. Jaded but savvy woman of the world.”

“Jaded, Rick? You think?”

“What if Brady had been with me? What if he'd seen you spinning like that? Do you
want
him to stop payment on the check he gave you for the retainer?”

“Don't be silly, Rick. It's already cleared the bank.”

He shook his head, picked up my feet gently and put them on another part of the desk.

“What are you looking for?”

“My glasses,” Rick said. “The Intellectual Prissy's.”

Rick had several pair of glasses, all with clear lenses; he had the vision of a hawk until the fine print got him. Each set of frames has a “character.”

“I thought you would wear the Rising Young Broker.”

“Oh, God no, not since Enron. I might as well throw
that
pair away.” Rick moved a folder, opened a side drawer, and sighed. The next drawer he yanked open, and the contents slid backward. “What time is it, Lena?”

I looked at my bare wrist, and made a guess. “Seven oh three.”

“My God, he's overdue, and I'm not
ready.”

I looked up warily. The tone of Rick's voice worried me. I knew better than to argue with him about whether or not he needed the glasses. He was already halfway into character. And since he'd chosen Intellectual Prissy, a detail-oriented personality if there ever was one, the glasses would have to be found. I opened the center drawer and shoved stuff around.

“Ah,” Rick said. I could hear sincere relief in his voice.

“Where were they?”

“Under your foot.” He cleaned the lenses absently on his sweater. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“No
spinning
, Lena.”

“Break a leg.”

Brady was late, as befitted a man of importance, and I grinned when I heard Rick greet him at the door.

“Oh, Mr. Brady, really? We'd assumed you weren't going to make it after all.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to keep you late.” Brady had a deep voice.

“Not at all. If I could ask you to sit? Yes, there is fine. May I take your coat? I'll just hang it here. Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Brady? I just made a fresh pot for Lena. Between you and me, she has way too much caffeine in her diet.”

“Actually, coffee would be very nice.”

“Black?”

“Sugar, if you have it.”

Brady sounded subdued. Was Rick overdoing? I should never have let him talk me into this. I was feeling like a pretentious idiot. My ex, God love him, was a snob at heart.

I heard Rick talking again, but could not make out the words, so he was likely in the kitchen getting Brady's coffee. Would Rick balk if I asked him to get me a cup?

A discreet knock and the door opened a crack. “Lena? Mr. Brady is here.”

I stared at Rick, who somehow looked nothing like his usual self. He raised an eyebrow at me, but waited patiently.

“Ask him to come in.”

Rick opened the door wide and Paul Ellis Brady walked in slowly, taking in the details of the office. He had light brown hair, well cut, gelled back. He wore khakis and a dress shirt—a vibrant French blue—and a well-cut suit jacket. No tie, and he seemed comfortable, as if he'd just had a nap and a shower. I stood up and shook his hand across the desk.

“Please, Mr. Brady. Sit down.”

Rick set a mug of coffee on my right, making sure it sat on a coaster.

“Thank you, Rick.” I took a sip. Lots of cream, the color barely tan, exactly as I like it. Rick's talents were wasted here in Lexington. I felt like he'd been my assistant for years.

Brady sat on a red fainting couch that Rick had shipped in from Nouveau Classics in Knoxville. He settled not quite on the edge, but not leaning back, comfortable but alert. He had presence, no doubt about it, and though he was not pretty, his face had a certain strength of feature and I could see how women would find him attractive.

“I didn't ask Miranda to join us on purpose. I've been worried about her. This is not the kind of thing she should be doing on her own.”

This took me by surprise. “Actually I agree with you, Mr. Brady. Your daughter told me you were … bogged down in business and wedding arrangements and didn't have time for the details.”

Brady gave me a half smile. “Did she? I postponed my wedding, Ms. Padget. Miranda wanted to do this on her own. I thought it was a bad idea, but—when Miranda asks, I usually say yes.”

“Ah. Has Miranda brought you up-to-date?”

Brady tapped a finger on his knee. “She said she'd given you a key to Cheryl's apartment. Filled you in on the family background. She said you thought Cheryl was dead, and had been killed in her car.”

I nodded. “You do know the police found Cheryl's car parked in the apartment lot?”

“Detective Mendez called me when it turned up. And told me the same—he thought she'd been killed in the car. I wanted to fly in and take a look, but he said he couldn't let me, not yet.”

I took a sip of my coffee. Miranda had been discreet, anyway.

“What else did Miranda tell you?”

He finished his coffee in one gulp, set the cup on the floor. “Miranda said that initially you agreed with the police. That Cheryl had had an affair with a coworker, that it had been some sort of mentor thing, and that she'd been murdered by the guy, Edgers.”

I ran a finger around the rim of my cup. “That is what I thought at first, Mr. Brady.”

“Paul, please.”

“Call me Lena. As it stands now, I'm not convinced that Cheryl was the victim of some kind of love triangle.”

“How so?”

I wondered how much I should tell him—the paying client. “Paul, were you and Cheryl close?”

“No,” Brady said. “Cheryl was never happy about the marriage between her mother and me. For that matter, neither was Miranda. It was sudden, I admit that, but Cheryl's mother … we were deeply in love. Both in need of someone in our lives. We probably should have taken things slower. As it was we got married on the spur of the moment, didn't invite the girls, or tell them what our plans were, and then we combined households. Can't really blame the kids. Miranda suddenly pulled out of school, Cheryl with a new sister invading her social group. It was a mess for a long time. We were finally pulling together when my wife got sick. She suffered for two years. We all suffered with her.

“Cheryl couldn't help but associate me with her life turning upside down, her mother dying. She lets me into her life, but only so far. I wanted to pay for her tuition; she wouldn't let me.”

That caught my attention. Miranda had made a point of telling me that her father paid for Cheryl's tuition—a direct lie.

Brady put a hand on each knee. “Cheryl wouldn't take any kind of allowance for living expenses from me while she was in school. She'd accept birthday and Christmas presents, and sometimes we'd get together on minor holidays. I tried to stay in touch, but I was busy, she was busy. We weren't talking on the phone more than once every couple of months. I always told her I was there for her if she ever had any trouble. She never called. She knew I was going to get married again. It was planned for mid-March. We've postponed indefinitely. Janet, my fiancée, she understands. And I'd like Miranda feeling a little more … settled. The wedding plans have upset her. She's told me she won't attend. I'd like her to change her mind.”

“Why did Miranda want to handle this by herself?”

Brady shrugged. “She was close to Cheryl, in her own way. She's a take-charge kind of girl … well, you've met her.” He chuckled. “Headstrong since birth, but very insecure. She's vulnerable, my little girl. I imagine she's pestered you three times a day with phone calls.”

“Not really.”

“Well, that doesn't surprise me either. Miranda gets enthusiasms, but she doesn't always follow through.”

“What did you mean when you said Miranda was close to Cheryl ‘in her own way'? She told me she and Cheryl had a very close relationship.”

“Frankly, Lena, Miranda admired her big sister, but she was jealous, too. Cheryl was always sure of herself, and what she wanted to do in her life. She was unusual that way. A planner. Smart and pretty, plenty of boyfriends if she was interested. I don't see her falling into the married-man trap. On the other hand, she was young, and I've seen a lot of bright women get snagged like that.”

I wondered if he'd snagged some of them himself. “At least we're all three in agreement, then. I don't think this is a matter of an intern romance gone bad. I think Cheryl was involved in something that was over her head, something connected with her job at ATF, and I think Edgers was involved, but frankly, I'm not much further along than that.”

“What do the police think?”

“I don't know. They police aren't speaking to me anymore, about Cheryl Dunkirk anyway.”

He nodded as if he understood.

“Do you want me to continue the investigation?”

He frowned. “Did you think I flew down here to fire you?”

“I've had the impression that you wanted to cover all bases, but there's no point in false hopes. I'll be honest. I still think Cheryl is dead. But I don't know if I'll be able to find out anything more than the police will. I'd like to stay on it if you're still game, but I could understand you wanting to leave it with the police.”

“Are they going to let the investigation stand where it is?”

“I can't speak for them. You'd have to talk to Detective Mendez.”

Brady nodded. I was sure he knew that Joel and I were involved, but he clearly wasn't going to bring it up.

“I'll drop by his office tomorrow. How are funds holding out?”

“Oh. The retainer?” This was a question I rarely got asked. “Fine. Funds are fine.

“Paul, forgive me for being direct, but a lot of the background Miranda has given me has been less than truthful. Which doesn't make sense to me. Do you have any idea why she'd lie?”

The word “lie” didn't go over well, though Brady didn't actively flinch.

Brady crossed his legs, gathering his thoughts. “When I decided to hire someone, to hire you, Miranda was upset about it. Then she changed her mind, and wanted to take care of things herself. She said she thought it would help her to have something constructive to do, something proactive. But I think it's been too much for her. The point is, she goes off like a Ping-Pong ball on these emotional things.

“I think maybe my daughter was telling you things the way she wanted them to be. It's not such a terrible thing, really, to say you're closer to a sister than you really were.”

I tapped a finger on the edge of the desk. Brady's answer dodged the issue—Miranda had lied about some odd things. “Paul, does Miranda have any history of emotional problems?”

“Of course not. But your question bothers me.”

“Miranda gave me a completely different account of Cheryl from the one everyone else has. You included.”

Brady sat forward. “I think it's clear that Miranda is having trouble coping with this—perfectly understandable. I think from here on out I'd like you to talk exclusively to me. If Miranda gets in touch, you can bring her up-to-date, but this way if she doesn't want to face things, then she doesn't have to. We'll leave it to her to find her comfort level.”

He wasn't asking permission. “I'd also like to know … Miranda told me you think Cheryl was strangled.” He studied Back's carpet. “How much do you think she suffered?”

I sat back in my chair. I do not mind this sort of question the way other people do, because I know how important it is for the family to have information, good or bad.

“She suffered. If things happened like I think they did, she knew her killer. She trusted him. She was taken by surprise and she fought him, really fought him. She wasn't afraid and terrorized beforehand, which is to the good. And the fight from the time she was attacked until the time she died … I'd say the whole thing took between eight and fifteen minutes. Being strangled is painful, but the shock and lack of oxygen kick in pretty quickly. A medical examiner could give you better information.”

“Fifteen minutes.” His tone of voice said
fifteen years
.

“That's from start to finish.”

“Was she raped?”

“My guess is no.”

He let a breath of air escape through clenched teeth.

“And she wasn't tortured. As far as I know. But at least she died fighting. That's something.”

But he and I both knew it wasn't much.