Regrets Only (22 page)

His sentiment echoed Archer’s. Did he really feel nothing? Lucy didn’t believe it for a second. Peace or no peace, she’d been his wife, the mother of his son. “Why did you want to speak with me about her death?”

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me if I seem taken aback. The women of my generation are not so . . . so direct.”

“I’ve been accused of being blunt before,” Lucy said, forcing a smile. “It’s just, well, I’m sure you can imagine that this is somewhat difficult for me. To be here with you without Archer knowing.”

“Are you suggesting he’d have a problem with that?”

“It probably depends upon what you have to say. But I wouldn’t blame him for being surprised.”

“There is little that surprises Archer, my dear. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be. But one of the reasons that I did invite you here was to protect him.” He tore his roll in half, selected a butter ball, and pressed it into the center with his small knife. The bite he took was more butter than bread. “Morgan and I were married very briefly—less than five years. She made no effort to connect to Archer or to fulfill her role as his mother. She and I had been out of contact for decades, until—” He stopped, opting not to finish that thought. “It isn’t fair to expose our family to whatever media attention may be generated by your inquiry into the circumstances surrounding her death. We’re private and we want to maintain that privacy.”

“I have no control over the press.”

“Perhaps not formally.”

“We have a separate publicity bureau that deals with the media.”

“That may be. But reporters certainly call the precinct to obtain information. The department issues press releases on high-profile cases. That’s what I’m trying to guard against: having our names mentioned in that setting. Morgan’s involvement with the Haverill family has no bearing on what’s happened and isn’t relevant to your investigation.” He leaned toward her. “Just so that I make myself clear, I’m willing to pay handsomely for discretion.”

His arrogance aside, the idea that he’d actually lured her to his country club only to try to bribe her was insulting—even if what he wanted was beyond her power or control to provide. Apparently good breeding didn’t guard against being an asshole. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” she said. “My duty as a police officer is to conduct a thorough investigation. While there can and will be no gratuitous release of information—and our unit takes extra precautions to guard against leaks—I cannot agree to alter in any manner the way my partner and I will proceed because of my relationship with Archer or . . . for any other reason.”

Mr. Haverill pursed his lips in an effort to contain his irritation. Despite Morgan’s departure from his life, and his son’s decision not to proceed with a career in finance, Lucy suspected that in most areas Mr. Haverill’s life had gone his way. He must have expected he could sway her or he would never have asked for this meeting.

“That said, if her personal life—or in this case prior life—played no part in her murder, you may get what you want. My department certainly understands the turmoil that can come from publicity. We’re not out to hurt anyone. I will make every effort to be sure that information is disseminated only on a need-to-know basis.”

It was the best she could offer, and he seemed to know it. They stared at each other for a moment but said nothing. Fortunately, the waiter, arriving with their crab cakes, provided a needed diversion. He set their plates in front of them and lifted off the silver covers that had kept lunch warm. “Enjoy,” he said.

Mr. Haverill began to eat quickly, signaling that the conversation was over. Once the meal was over, too, they could go their separate ways.

Lucy leaned forward. “Since I’m here, may I ask you some questions?”

He looked up from his plate with obvious displeasure.

“Who is Walter Reese?”

“You mean ‘was.’ Walter was Morgan’s father,” he replied. “A wonderful man. He died shortly after our marriage.”

Lucy tried to hide her surprise. Had Morgan illegally used his identity to get medication for herself? She remembered the message on the answering machine. No wonder the insurance company had questioned the prescription. But it still seemed odd that Morgan wouldn’t have simply paid cash for the drugs and avoided the issue altogether. Why was she willing to risk her medical license to hide the fact that she wanted antianxiety medication? “Does Morgan have any surviving family?”

“Other than Archer?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not any of whom I’m aware.”

“You mentioned, or almost mentioned before you caught yourself, that you’d had contact with Morgan. I assume recently. Is that right?”

He nodded but didn’t verbalize a reply.

“Can you tell me why?”

He was silent.

“Look . . . sir, as I said, I’m going to do my best to help you. I’m trying to solve this crime as quickly as possible. At this point, we still know very little about Morgan’s life, or why someone might have wanted her dead. If you have information that may be important and you don’t disclose it, that leaves me with only one choice—a route I don’t want to take.”

“And what is that?”

“Have the Assistant District Attorney call you before a grand jury.”

He coughed. “I beg your pardon.”

“You and I actually want the same thing, which is to make this case go away. That’s going to happen when we catch Morgan’s killer. It’d be a lot easier if you tell me what you know right here, right now.”

She should have forced him to come down to the precinct, to talk on her turf. But since she’d already made that mistake, she was determined to leave with something useful.

“You’re tough,” he said under his breath.

“That’s my job.”

He laid his knife and fork together on his plate. “She contacted me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with a ragged edge. It appeared the note had been folded and refolded multiple times. Now he opened it yet again and glanced down, no doubt by force of habit; judging from the expression of concern on his face, he didn’t need his memory refreshed. “She wrote to inform me that she had a substantial life insurance policy.”

“How substantial?”

“For the sum of five million dollars.”

“Why tell you?”

He hesitated briefly. “Because Archer is the beneficiary.”

To buy a policy or even to pay premiums on an existing one of that size at her age was no small investment. Why would an estranged mother do that when she knew that the Haverill family was beyond affluent already? Morgan had to have known Archer never would want for anything. “When did she tell you this?”

“Two weeks ago. We spoke briefly. These are my notes on that conversation.”

“Why did you take notes?”

“I’m not as young as you. I need reminders of events.”

She couldn’t tell from his tone of voice whether his comment was an attempt at levity. “Does Archer know?”

He shook his head.

“Why didn’t she tell him herself? Why contact you? He’s not a child anymore,” she added. Then she remembered Morgan’s luncheon invitation to Archer. Perhaps she’d intended to tell him, but he hadn’t given her the opportunity. He’d never responded, not even to say he wouldn’t come.

“Because she knew how I felt about inherited wealth.”

She clasped her hands together and leaned toward him. “And how is that?”

He cleared his throat. “I doubt that what I’m about to say will make much sense to you, but I will say my piece nonetheless. As you well know, Archer is privileged. As a child, he had everything money could buy. He knows the house and all that I have will be his some day, perhaps not too long from now. And that luxury has allowed him to act irresponsibly. What he inherited, and what he will potentially inherit, has made him reckless.”

Bar ownership didn’t comport with Main Line expectations. That he’d created a lively meeting place for a diverse crowd apparently was lost on his father.

Mr. Haverill continued. “He gave up a meaningful profession. He provides a forum for artists who can’t get a gallery and writers whom no one will publish, so-called creative types who don’t even pay the bar bill.”

“But he loves his job.”

“It’s self-indulgent. He’s accomplished nothing except to make himself a big fish in a little pond of his own creating. He ignores even the most basic lessons that most of us learn about capitalism. He has no sense of social obligation.”

She was shocked. She wanted to think of him as an old man who, because he had little to show for his life but money, was bitter that his son had chosen another path. That would be the most charitable view of his words. But, sadly, she didn’t think that was the case. He didn’t strike her as the type to question the choices he’d made. Self-reflection required openness that Mr. Haverill sorely lacked. His way was the right way, and Archer was the deviant.

“Morgan wanted to speak to me because she knew I would be upset about the policy. She’d found out about The Arch. I suppose she knew me well enough even after all this time to assume I disapproved.”

“So then why tell you she was leaving more money to Archer?”

“What she said was, ‘You won’t have to think of your hard-earned wealth as being squandered. Leave your possessions to charity. Become the great philanthropist. Make yourself immortal. I’ll take care of Archer.’ She had the notion that she could step back into our lives and try to undo what she’d done. She didn’t care if she under-mined me.”

Lucy remembered the conversation with Archer the night before:
He told me I was just like my mother.
Morgan would achieve in death what she hadn’t in life: to give her son freedom from the Haverill legacy—freedom she herself had sought. This policy, her gesture, would ensure that he could do what he wanted, live the life he wanted, and be beholden to no one.

“Do you have a copy of the policy?” Lucy asked.

“My lawyer is in the process of obtaining it.”

“I’d like to see it when he does,” she replied. “When are you intending to break the news to Archer?”

“He’ll be told when the time is appropriate,” Mr. Haverill answered quickly.

“And when in your estimation might that be?” she asked, looking directly into his eyes.

“When I can have some assurance that this money won’t promote even more irresponsibility.” He removed his napkin from his lap and laid it on the table. The meal was over.

“You’re making a huge mistake, sir,” she said, refusing to take the hint. “I know your son. He’s smart. He’s interested in the world around him. He recognizes talent, and he’s interested in helping people. You grossly underestimate him if you mistake passion and commitment for irresponsibility.”

“I asked you to come here for your help, not to lecture me. I think it’s time we said good-bye.”

She felt a surge of adrenaline fueled by anger. “You invited me here to see if I could assist you in getting what you want. I’m not sure exactly what that is, but I won’t be bought and I can’t be bribed. But I love your son and don’t want to see him hurt more than he has been. So I’m offering my advice. Free,” she announced, thinking for a moment of Lucy in the
Peanuts
comic strip, who dispensed psychiatric help from her makeshift stand only for the joy of hearing a nickel payment rattle in the jar. She leaned toward Mr. Haverill. “Tell him the truth. Tell him about what his mother did—then and now. It might help you both to get some secrets off your chest.”

“This is not a game, Detective O’Malley.”

“So don’t try to beat your son.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he signaled to the waiter and gave his house account number in lieu of payment.

As they stood, Lucy felt dizzy and realized her legs were trembling. She’d wanted to defend Archer and the choices he’d made, but her boldness came at a price. After all, this was the father—the only family—of the man she loved. In her effort to help mend Mr. Haverill’s relationship with his son, she’d most certainly damaged any potential for one between her and him. She quickly reached for a chair to steady herself.

As she straightened up, she heard his voice.

“May I?” he asked, offering her an arm.

No doubt the gesture was designed to avoid the embarrassment of having his young, female lunch guest collapse on the way out of the dining room, but she welcomed the support nonetheless. Looping her elbow through his, she allowed him to escort her out.

“I’m relieved to see that you’re apparently not as tough as you appear,” he said, speaking out of the side of his mouth in a low whisper. He nodded to the maître d’. “For Archer’s sake . . . and for my own.”

17

2:15 p.m
.

L
ucy was relieved to see the familiar back entrance to the Roundhouse, so named because from an aerial view the building resembled a pair of giant handcuffs. There always were scattered cigarette butts leading from the front door to the street, and an orange cone marking a hole in the sidewalk pavement had been there for longer than she could remember. Pushing open the door, she smiled at the uniformed cop on duty at the reception desk. Even the stale smell of the air, the result of too many take-out meals and too little ventilation, soothed her spirits. This was where she belonged.

The Homicide and Special Investigations Units were packed. Given that there were multiple “live ones”—the unlikely euphemism for active investigations of dead bodies—many of the night shift had stayed on and the room was filled with noise: the clicking of dozens of computer keyboards, a litany of voices in varying degrees of pitch and volume, and telephones ringing so frequently that one interrupted another. There were many days when Lucy had to block out the sound because it was so overwhelming. But not today. At this moment she appreciated the chaos more than ever.

She wove her way through the tightly spaced desks toward her own, glancing at the various collections of personal mementos on each one. She didn’t know the other detectives particularly well, and with little time for idle chatter, she liked these glimpses into their lives. She paused at the eight-by-ten glossy of a toddler dressed in a police uniform and propped against a fake sky background. “That’s my boy,” Ben DeForest remarked proudly. “Handsome fellow, don’t you think?”