The Unquiet Dead (23 page)

Was it her imagination or was Khattak's smooth front unraveling a little? The knot on his tie lacked its usual exactness. The pen inside his shirt pocket had leaked ink, leaving a small blue teardrop at its corner. His manner was abstracted, his forehead creased as if he was fighting off a headache. Which only made sense, after his disastrous interview with Hadley Blessant. He'd given her the barest of details, admitting candidly to his failure. And his sense of shame.

She hoped their time with Drayton's lawyer would be more profitable. To that end, she'd made more of an effort than usual with her dress code. On the whole, she detested lawyers, although every now and again, she came across one who made her forget their unmitigated unhelpfulness when she'd tried to emancipate herself and Zachary from Don Getty's control. Charles Brining wasn't one of them. He was a twig-thin, nervous man in his sixties with the bespectacled face of an absentminded owl and the irritating habit of clearing his throat before each utterance.

He met them in his firm's conference room, a space that aimed at the glamour of the high-powered conglomerates on Bay Street. The seedy, well-thumbed magazines gave the lie to a shining mahogany conference table and the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out upon ramps to the 401.

His discreet assessment of the duo from CPS took in Rachel's crumpled Banana Republic suit in an unflattering shade of taupe and the ink stain on Khattak's otherwise pristine shirt.

“I've considered the will, as you've asked,” he said as an opener. He had the querulous voice of an elderly woman unable to follow the bidding at her bridge game. “It's quite straightforward. With the exception of a single bequest, he leaves his fortune in its entirety to a Mrs. Melanie Blessant. The house and the chattel are left to the same—ah—lady.”

Rachel pounced. “You've met her, then.”

Brining blinked at her through his spectacles. “Yes, ah—yes. Mr. Drayton brought her with him once.”

“Did he discuss the disposition of the will with her?”

“I advised him not to do so.”

Rachel and Khattak exchanged a glance.

“Why was that?”

“General prudence.” Brining cleared his throat, his pronounced Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he spoke. “The lady has a somewhat—grasping demeanor.”

Rachel grinned. “Did she ask you about the will?”

“She spent her time in our lounge, refurbishing her nail polish. She did—ah, drop in to ask a question or two, but naturally, I was not at liberty to speak of Mr. Drayton's confidential matters.”

“Naturally,” Rachel agreed. “You mentioned another bequest.”

Brining worried the tip of his tongue against his lips, a motion that caused the tuft of white hair on his head to shiver slightly. “Yes. Of a charitable nature in that it was a bequest to a registered nonprofit. Informally, I believe it's known as Ringsong. The name on record is the Andalusia Museum Project. The fund was to be administered by the museum's board of directors.”

“When you say ‘fund,' how much money are we talking?”

Brining looked abashed, as if the mention of actual hard numbers was an indecency. “My dear Sergeant Getty, the man had done quite well out of his business. Even with all that's owed in taxes and death duties, he was quite comfortably able to bequeath the museum a quarter of a million dollars.”

“What?”
Rachel hissed. “You've got to be kidding.”

“I assure you I am not.”

“But why would he want to give so much money to such a small project?”

“It was quite a passion project of his. He wanted to leave a legacy, and the Reconquest of Spain from the Moors was a legacy he respected very much. It seemed somehow personal to him. Is that helpful to you?”

“It confirms certain theories,” Khattak said, echoing the lawyer's noncommittal manner.

“Then perhaps I should add that the amount available to Mrs. Blessant is substantially more.”

“How much more?”

“Something in the nature of two million.”

Rachel's shock was evident.

“Just what type of business was he in?”

“He operated a parking lot in the city that was remarkably lucrative. And of course, he brought savings with him from his businesses in Italy.”

Rachel's knees knocked together. The thought of Melanie Blessant in possession of so much ill-gained fortune made her feel nauseated.

“Do you know the nature of those businesses?”

“Import-export, I believe. Christopher didn't discuss the specifics with me.”

“You were on a first-name basis?”

Brining bristled. “It's atypical, I assure you. We were of a similar age, with similar interests. He was a hospitable man: we socialized occasionally.”

Rachel rushed to soothe him. “Of course. You say you had similar interests. Might I ask what those were?”

Brining's smile was unexpected. It disclosed a series of irregular, closely corralled teeth with a gap at the center.

“I'm quite fond of vacationing in Italy. The food is divine. And we both enjoy a tinker in our gardens. Peaceable hobbies.”

“Indeed.” Khattak cut in. “What would happen to Mr. Drayton's bequests, if it became public knowledge that Christopher Drayton was not in fact his true identity?”

The unexpectedly charming smile disappeared. “I'm afraid I don't quite follow.”

“If Christopher Drayton was an assumed identity rather than a real one.”

A shrewd flash of intuition lit up Brining's eyes. “Is that the nature of your interest in this matter?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose it would depend. If the identity was a legal identity, as per a perfectly justifiable legal name change, it would have no impact at all. If he'd never formally registered a change of name, there would be issues, certainly, but none that might not be overcome with careful and thorough paperwork.”

Careful and thorough paperwork were Charles Brining's holy grail, Rachel deduced at once.

“That's not the issue, is it, Inspector?” Brining's rheumy gaze darted between the two detectives. “If Mr. Drayton were some type of fugitive or if the funds themselves were to be of suspect provenance—illegally gotten gains,” he elucidated for Rachel's benefit, “then naturally, the bequests would be held up until Christopher's legal right to the funds could be determined. If any of his assets were found to be the gains of criminal enterprise, they would be seized by the jurisdiction most concerned with the crime.” He lowered his voice. “Does this pertain to organized crime?”

“We don't have that information yet, although we are in the process of acquiring it. Would you be able to do something for us, sir?”

“That—ah—depends.” Ever cautious, the lawyer waited for clarification.

“Would you notify the beneficiaries of their bequests but also warn them that the actual dispensation of funds will be held up until our investigation is concluded?”

“That was within my ambit, regardless. I shall do so immediately.”

“And if they press you for additional information—”

“Naturally, I shall say nothing, as I know nothing,” he responded with a twinkle in his eye.

“You're very good.”

Brining dismissed this. “I must say, however, Inspector—”

“Yes?”

“I cannot imagine Christopher Drayton to have been anyone other than who he claimed to be. A generous man whose greatest pleasure was his garden, with perhaps a weakness for improbable women.”

Rachel grinned at the word. It was a brief yet perfectly calculated description of Melanie Blessant's pneumatically enhanced attractions.

“You say improbable, sir. Why so?”

“She presented herself as—what's the common vernacular? Ah yes. No more than a trophy for Christopher's arm. A somewhat artificial woman with a voracious eye for Christopher's credit cards. He didn't seem to mind that.” Brining's white tuft trembled as he nodded at Rachel. “Yet I had the distinct impression she knew everything there was to know about Christopher, down to his last cent.” His manner became grave. “If Christopher Drayton was indeed an assumed identity, I have very little doubt that Mrs. Blessant knew the truth of it.”

*   *   *

“Let me make a call, Rachel.”

Rachel cooled her heels by the car, noting anew the sprawling ugliness of the shopping mall across from them. In the last two decades, its big-box stores had multiplied exponentially, robbing the façade of any appeal.

Khattak made no effort to screen his call from her hearing. He made a polite but firm request to be put through to Tom Paley at Justice. Some moments passed before the call was connected.

“Tom? It's Esa here. I think I have confirmation.”

Rachel listened without pretense as Khattak described the letters and the gun in Drayton's study, his own suspicions, and lastly, Drayton's tattoo.

“You'll need to trace the money. It's the fastest route to the truth.” He listened for a moment. “I can't confirm it through DNA unless you or the ICTY have a sample on file. Do you have that?” Another pause. “I didn't think so. Listen, Tom, we should talk in person. I'll come to Ottawa tomorrow. We need to discuss exposure.”

Rachel scowled. Just what in hell did he mean by that?

As if he'd heard her thoughts—or just read the anger on her face—he went on, “It's time you notified Immigration, more than time. And I've a duty here with regard to the Bosnian community. You can't possibly expect this to remain quiet much longer.”

Another long silence, and this time it was Khattak who looked angry. “Who told you about Imam Muharrem? I see. Then let me say this, the Bosnian mosque was our first, best lead in terms of confirming identity. The imam has offered to put us in touch with survivors who were at Poto
č
ari when Krstić was there. Survivors who won't have forgotten what he looks like or who he is. I'm well aware of that, Tom. And yes, I'll be discreet.”

He snapped his phone shut. “They'll trace the money. It's what they should have done from the first.”

“What about Immigration?”

“Yes, that's the question, isn't it?” He stared up at the glass tower to Brining's office. “There was no legal name change, that's one thing I can tell you. However Krstić got here, it was as Christopher Drayton.”

“You've been widening the net,” Rachel said. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“If this blows up, as I've every reason to believe it will, I don't want you caught in the crossfire. They'll come after me. I need to make sure you stay above it so we can salvage any justice that's possible from this mess.”

“That sounds personal, sir.”

“If you'd been through a single day that Sarajevo was under siege, you might find it personal as well. It won't compromise my judgment.”

Wouldn't it? He hadn't mentioned the bequest to Mink.

“Sir, what about the museum?”

“What about it?”

“A quarter of a million dollars. That's quite a motive. Money left as a bequest is entirely different from a donor's gift. It comes without strings attached.”

“If Drayton is Dra
ž
en Krstić, I've every confidence that Ms. Norman will refuse the gift.”

“Have you?” Rachel bit her lip. “If the money's dirty, there's no gift to leave. But Mink Norman wouldn't have known that.”

Comprehension flared in Khattak's eyes. “Suppose Melanie Blessant did know. Suppose she understood the letters she snooped through all too well. Maybe she did have the combination to the safe and she got rid of anything that definitively pointed to Krstić. Knowing that it might be an obstacle to his fortune.”

Rachel wondered if he could hear himself—the thin and paltry hope.

“There's a number of problems with that, sir.” She chose her words carefully. “If she married Drayton, she was getting everything anyway. And from all accounts, not to mention the blinding piece of statuary on her finger, they
were
to be married.”

“She might have preferred the money without the man. There was a considerable age difference. And Drayton wanted her daughters to move in as well, whereas Hadley's given me to understand that the last thing her mother wanted was to allow the girls anywhere near her love nest.”

“All right. Then if she had the combination to the safe, why would she leave the letters behind? If she wanted to obscure Drayton's true identity, surely she wouldn't leave behind dozens of letters that address him as Dra
ž
en Krstić and accuse him of heinous crimes.”

“That part might have been true. She might not have understood the letters.” He met Rachel's gaze and caught himself. “No, you're right. It doesn't add up. She's a calculating woman, not a clever one. She may have seen the letters and the will—Brining said that Drayton retained his own copy, by the way. She may have known what Drayton was and simply not cared about anything except her own security. She wouldn't necessarily have understood that the letters posed a threat to her inheritance under the will, but Rachel—all this presupposes that Dra
ž
en Krstić was more likely to have been helped to his death by a mercenary woman than by the person who sent him the letters.”

Rachel mulled this over, chewing at the end of her ponytail.

“You're saying that the likeliest answer—”

“Is that he was killed by a survivor of the massacre he perpetrated.”

“A man fell to his death from the Bluffs,” she mused.

“It can't be a coincidence. I just don't see it.”

“Nor I,” she agreed. “And Melanie's the type to prefer to have a man around, doting on her every whim. Maybe she didn't know about the will, despite what Charles Brining said. Maybe Drayton alive was her only guarantee of security.”