Greedy Bones (13 page)

Harold might know, and he was a far more direct route to knowledge than any lawyer I'd ever met.

"Thanks, Mr. Lambert."

"Please, call me Attila."

I would try, but I couldn't make any promises. I gathered my notes and legged it over to the bank.

Harold met with me instantly. I'd barely sat down when his secretary brought in the coffee service complete with cheese Danish.

"You look hungry, Sarah Booth," he said. "Help yourself."

What was it with all the men in my life wanting to feed me? My mouth watered at the sight of the pastries, and I helped myself to one and a steaming cup of black coffee.

"Delicious," I mumbled with my mouth stuffed.

Harold laughed out loud. "You can be so childlike, Sarah Booth."

"I'm ravenous all the time," I answered, eyeing another Danish.

He pushed the plate closer to me. "When you come up for air, tell me what's on your mind."

I told him what I needed, which was confidential bank records for Luther, Lana, Gregory, and, if possible, Erin Carlisle.

He tapped his fingers together gently as he thought. "This is absolutely necessary to help Oscar?"

"I believe Oscar picked up some bacteria or something at the Carlisle place. Now the bacteria or what ever had to get there one of three ways--natural occurrence, deliberately put there, or accidentally put there. I'm voting for deliberate. If there's one thing I've learned from Tinkie, it's to look for the financial gain. That's what I'm trying to do."

Harold studied my face for a brief few seconds. "Okay. For you, I'll get this personally." He rose and left the office.

He was taking a risk. A big one. Violation of confidentiality and all of that. I had no legal authority to ask for such information. While he was gone I ate two more Danishes and downed another cup of coffee. I was just beginning to regret my pastry orgy when he returned with a sheaf of papers.

"Please destroy these once you've found what you need."

"I will."

He glanced from the empty Danish plate to me. "Are you okay?"

I nodded. Of course I wasn't okay. The Michelin Tire Man and I were about to claim kinship. I'd always had a healthy appetite, but my hunger for the pastries had been insatiable.

"There are no records for Erin. She moved her account from Zinnia years ago."

That was interesting, but not unusual. Why would she bank in a town where she didn't live? I took the documents he handed me. In one glance I knew I needed Tinkie's help. She was the financial genius in the Delaney Detective Agency. "As soon as I figure out if any of this is pertinent, I'll shred them."

"If this helps you uncover what's wrong with Oscar, I'll take any fallout that comes my way."

"Coleman could have gotten this with a court order." I was trying to make him feel better about violation of his personal ethics. Harold took his job seriously.

"Yes, he could have."

"But it would have taken time. By then . . ."

"Yes, by then, Oscar may be dead."

I rose. "Thank you, Harold.

"Good luck, Sarah Booth." His pale eyes were bloodshot, and he was tired and worried.

I put my hand on his shoulder and felt a weak pulse in my thumb. Harold worked on me in a strange way. My throbbing thumb let me know that our mutual attraction would never completely die. "Coleman and the CDC and I will leave no stone unturned. We'll find out what's wrong."

"Has there been any improvement in any of the patients?" he asked.

I thought about it. "I'm no medical expert, but I think the two women are a little better. Doc hasn't confirmed this."

"And Gordon?"

The deputy was worse. Sores covered his nose and mouth. Doc had applied ointment and pads and taped his eyes shut. "He's hanging in there."

"Tell Tinkie I'm available to do what ever she needs."

"I'll pass that along."

Clutching the documents, I left the bank and drove to the hospital where Tinkie sat guard, her father at her side.

The documents sprawled across a small table in the hospital cafeteria. Tinkie had commandeered a pad from the nurses' station, and she was making notes and calculations. The meticulous lines of figures meant nothing to me. I put two fresh cups of coffee on the table and a plate of toasted bagels and cream cheese. Unbelievably, my mouth watered at the smell of the bagels.

Absently, Tinkie began to eat, her total concentration on the numbers.

When she lifted her gaze, there was defeat in her face. "The figures all track, according to what you said was in the wills. There's no hint of misappropriation of funds."

"Well, damn." I'd hoped to pin something on Luther.

"Gregory didn't have a lot of time to blow through the insurance money after Lana's death. The check for half a million from the insurance company went into his account. Gregory made biannual payments to this Sonja Kessler prior to his death, and Luther continued them. There must have been an agreement between father and son."

"Sonja Kessler is next on my to-do list."

"She may be a good lead." Tinkie glanced at the snack machines and small food court as if aware for the first time of her surroundings.

Worry and fear, which had abated for the few moments she puzzled out the financial statements, settled back onto her features. "I have to go." She stood up as if she'd been given an electric jolt. "Oscar's all alone."

"No, your father is with him," I reminded her. "Mr. Bellcase is watching over Oscar and the others, too." Tinkie was convinced that if Oscar was left alone for even a minute, the Angel of Death would slip down the corridor and snatch him away.

"I need to be with Oscar."

I gently circled her wrist with my hand and held her. "Eat a little more. For me."

She sat on the edge of her chair and picked up another piece of bagel. "For you, Sarah Booth." She stuffed it into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and stood. Oscar was all she had on her mind.

"I'm going to Chicago," I told her. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Sarah Booth, you may just be chasing your tail." Tinkie pointed at the papers still scattered on the table. "What if this illness has nothing to do with the Carlisle family?"

"Do you know something, Tinkie?" Oscar hadn't regained consciousness, hadn't spoken to anyone, but I'd learned the hard way not to discount the things that Tinkie could discern by listening to her heart.

She chewed the tip of her thumb, hesitating. "It's occurred to me that someone may have followed Oscar out there. Someone he was meeting. Someone who might have hurt him."

The words were like blows of a hammer. "I don't believe that." If Tinkie was accusing Oscar of a tete-a-tete with another woman, I didn't believe it at all.

"I've neglected him lately." Tears welled and slipped down her cheeks.

"Bullshit." I could not let her believe this.

"I've focused on myself, my dreams, my wants."

Guilt is an invasive virus. Once it breaks into a person's mind, it spreads and infects everything. "That's total crap, Tinkie. Don't do this to yourself."

"What if it's true?"

"Both Harold and Margene told you that Luther called and asked Oscar to sell the plantation. A legitimate business call sent him to that land. It wasn't some chance to have a fling in an abandoned house."

The silent tears let me know I wasn't making any progress.

"Oscar is totally in love with you, Tinkie. He was proud of your accomplishments as a private investigator. Even your father said so."

Her head tilted slightly as if her hearing was bad. "Daddy said that?"

Oh, thank goodness I remembered. "Mr. Bellcase has spoken to me twice. Both times he warned me against getting you hurt, and both times he told me how proud of you he is. And how proud Oscar is."

Tinkie's tiny hands swiped at the tears. "You don't think he was meeting a woman at the Carlisle place?"

"I'd bet my life he wasn't." My heart was hammering so hard, my stomach felt upset. The Danishes I'd gobbled in Harold's office had turned to lead.

The tears were gone and Tinkie's blue eyes were sharp and clear. "Do you think he could have been meeting someone else, a buyer?"

"From all accounts, he went alone, examined the property, and returned to the bank without incident. There's no indication anyone else was near."

She stood up. "Keep searching, Sarah Booth. I know Coleman and the CDC are working hard, but you're my best hope."

Lucky for me there were several direct flights to Chicago from Memphis, and I caught an afternoon plane that put me in the Windy City before sunset. Before I'd driven to Memphis, I'd called Graf to update him, and simply to hear his voice. I'd also let Cece and Millie know my destination. Sonja Kessler sounded like a paramour, but that didn't mean she wasn't a dangerous person.

I'd booked a room at a downtown hotel near the Park-side Drive address. Best I could tell by a bit of Internet research, Parkside Drive was in an older, established neighborhood.

One of the hardest winters on record had buried Chicago in snow after snow, but spring was everywhere I looked as I entered the downtown.

The Atria Hotel was old-world charm mixed with modern conveniences. My room was lovely and serene--and terribly empty. I thought of Graf and how much I missed him. My fingers circled my cell phone, and the
temptation to call was almost irresistible. But I didn't. He'd told me his shooting schedule, and he was probably in the middle of his horse back chase.

I left my small bag on the bed and hurried back downstairs, where the doorman flagged a taxi.

"2424 Parkside Drive," I told the young woman behind the wheel. Her dark gaze caught mine in the rearview mirror, but she didn't comment. The cab eased into busy traffic.

While newer neighborhoods suffer from the McMansion Syndrome--huge homes set side by side on tiny lots--Parkside was a paradise of gracious homes, each nestled among ancient trees and hedges on several acres.

"Do you know anything about this neighborhood?" I asked the driver.

"Chicago businessmen built these homes in the early 1900s. During the school year the families lived here, then moved to the lake for the summers."

"Who owns them now?" I asked.

"People who want to preserve the historic downtown, people with that sort of consciousness. And money. It takes a lot of cash to keep up an old house. Maintenance . . ." She made a motion of doling out money. "And heating."

"It's so beautiful here."

"Yeah, money can generally buy a nice view and good neighbors."

The address we sought had a circular driveway lined with towering plants, maybe rhododendron. The cabby stopped at the door. "Shall I wait?" she asked.

"I don't look like the type who'll stay long?"

"No bag, don't know the neighborhood--those things tell me you're looking for something. Either you'll find it quickly and leave, or you'll just leave."

I liked her spunk. "Wait for me," I said.

She pulled a paperback from the front seat and settled back to read.

I walked to the leaded-glass entry and rang the bell. Instead of a butler, a tall, slender woman opened the door.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Sonja Kessler?"

"Yes." She looked beyond me at the taxi in the drive. "Who are you?"

"Sarah Booth Delaney, private investigator. I'm here about your interest in the Carlisle family."

I thought at first she'd stopped breathing. Her blue gaze, as large and clear as Tinkie's, held on my face but registered no emotion.

"I can't talk with you," she said at last. "I have plans for this evening." She began to shut the door.

I wedged my foot in the crack, wincing as the heavy door pressed against it. "Talk to me now, or Sheriff Cole-man Peters will be here tomorrow."

That shook her up. She viewed me through the three-inch gap. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "The past is dead and gone. There's no changing it. Just let it lie."

"I don't think so."

She stepped back, and I pressed my advantage by pushing the door open, revealing a beautifully decorated foyer. I followed her down a hallway into a small library where she'd obviously been working on some papers.

She was younger than I'd assumed. Much younger. A beautiful woman who must have begun her affair with Gregory Carlisle during her teens. Perhaps that was reason enough to pay her. A Delta planter and a teenage lover--the stories would have gotten ugly.

"Why have you come here?" She gathered the papers.

"The Carlisle estate has made payments to you for years. Why?"

She paused. "It's not what you think."

"Really?"

"Gregory was my father. He paid me not to come to Mississippi." She stacked the papers into a neat bundle. "Would you like a soda or some tea?"

The tea was strong and not sweet, just the way I liked it. Sonja was direct. "Once Gregory accepted that I was his daughter, he offered a yearly sum of money. Not a fortune, but enough. On his death I received a hundred thousand additional." Sonja's smile was pensive and she distractedly rattled the ice in her tea glass. "Hush money, some people would call it. Since I never knew Gregory, I took the money and let the rest go. I viewed it as a windfall."