Inherit the Dead

18 MAX ALLAN COLLINS

The desk sergeant barely looked up as Watson swiped his badge to the second floor, Perry right beside him.

As they moved through, Watson’s latest partner — a smirky kid named Fleming, maybe working his first dead body — joined them as they wound their way back to one of the interview rooms.

Fleming was in his late twenties, fair-haired and fresh-faced. He looked a lot like a junior-league Watson in his slightly better suit, a gray pinstripe; the older detective’s was navy blue and, as usual, as rumpled as an unmade bed. Perry hadn’t met Fleming the other day, and he didn’t think he was going to like him.

Watson and the kid cop dropped into chairs on one side of the table and Watson waved Perry to a chair opposite, then reached forward and hit Record on the small digital recorder that was the table’s tiny metallic centerpiece.

Still standing, arms spread with his palms up, Perry asked, “An interview room? Recording me? Henry, am I a suspect?”

Patting the air between them, Watson said, “No, no, but she was your client, after all. Just have a seat.”

Reluctantly, Perry did so, as Watson told the recorder the date and time, adding the name of the interviewee, of course.

Perry said, “Yes, she was my client.”

“Why did she hire you?”

“You know why.”

“This is for the record.” Watson nodded at the recorder and gave Perry the edge of a smile.

Perry saw nothing to gain by dodging the question. Julia was dead, and there wasn’t a damn thing to be done about it. “She hired me to find her estranged daughter.”

“The daughter have a name?”

“Angelina Loki.”

“Spell that please.”

Perry did.

“And it was her cell phone you had me run down?”

“You already know that.”

“It’s for the record. I’m sorry, but I have to do my job here — you know that.”

Perry knew the pressure would be on Watson, that Julia Drusilla’s body was his jurisdiction, suicide or not. He nodded.

“Verbal response, please.”

“Yes. Her cell phone.”

“Did you find her?”

“I found her.”

“So, then… I assume your client was pleased?”

Shrugging, Perry said, “I never had the chance to tell her. When I got to the apartment, she was… you know.”

“Splattered?” Fleming said.

Watson shot the kid a look, but Perry didn’t react. He wouldn’t give the smart-ass kid the satisfaction. And if Watson had set up the ancient good-cop/bad-cop wheeze, he wouldn’t dignify that with a reaction, either. Was his old friend trying to put some distance between them? Was that what this was about?

Watson asked, “So… Julia Drusilla never knew you found her daughter?”

“That’s right. She didn’t.” Would it have made any difference if he’d reached her as soon as he’d found Angel? Perry wasn’t so sure. At the time he’d been happy for the delay. Now he was sorry.

“What was the story?”

Perry settled in. “Julia Drusilla told me she was dying and wanted to straighten things out with her estranged daughter.”

“Angelina.”

“Angel. Ms. Drusilla wanted me to track her down.”

“You had the cell number and came to me?”

Perry supposed a cop, even his friend, going on the record, had to ask questions he already knew the answer to, but that didn’t make it any less irritating.

Watson sighed. “Look, I know we’ve been through it, but I need to file a report.”

“On me?”

Watson’s jaw twitched. “On Drusilla. But you came to me, remember, got me involved. So now I’ve got to include that in that report.”

So that was part of it: his good pal wanted to make sure he looked clean and pure, none of the old Christo stain on him. The two men stared at each other a moment.

“First,” Perry said, “I went out to Long Island and met Norman Loki, Julia’s ex. When that marriage went bust, Angel moved to Long Island with her father.”

“Uh-huh,” Watson said, nodding.

“Then I met an artist, Lilith Bates — Angel’s best friend. She gave me the name of the motel where Angel and her boyfriend Randy had taken off to, and were supposedly shacked up in.”

Fleming was frowning. “They weren’t at the motel?”

“No. But I spoke to the boyfriend, Randy Hyde, and he’d been there, with her. And I spoke to the motel manager, too… but no Angel. Not anymore.”

Perry left out that he thought Randy — or that crooked politician Angel was playing with — might have been driving the car that tried to run him off the damn Brooklyn Bridge. That wasn’t part of the story — that was personal, and he’d keep it to himself.

“Then?” Watson asked.

“Then I had you run the cell number. I’m sure you remember.” He tried to keep the edge out of his voice but failed.

“Yeah.” Watson nodded. “I remember.”

“And?” Fleming asked.

“And that sent me to Brooklyn to see Athena Williams.

“Who’s she?” Fleming asked.

“Angel’s nanny. She might be the only real friend that girl has in the whole world. That’s where I found my client’s daughter.”

“But you never got a chance to tell Ms. Drusilla?” Fleming asked.

Perry just shook his head.

“Verbally, please.”

“No, I never got that chance. I already said that.”

Watson finally asked the question the PI had been waiting for this whole time. “Why was Julia really looking for her daughter? If she wanted to ‘straighten things out,’ she’d had years to do it. Why now, all of a sudden?”

“Why now? She was dying, and there was the matter of an inheritance.”

“Details, please.”

Perry shrugged. “Angel would be eligible for that in a few days. When she turns twenty-one.”

“Her mom’s estate,” Fleming said, not a question.

“Which was quite sizable,” Perry said, nodding. “Mommy got a bundle when her own parents died.”

“When was that?” Fleming asked.

But it was Watson who answered: “Julia’s old man died in a crash. Him and his wife, both.”

“Car accident?” the young detective asked.

“Yeah. He was a big shot, filthy rich, plus he had tons of life insurance coverage on the whole family. Then, wham — his car runs into an eighteen-wheeler. Fell asleep driving, maybe. Anyway, he and his wife die, and presto, Julia’s got herself quite the little nest egg.”

That was a nasty way to put it, but Perry skipped a comment and finally asked a question of his own. “Any chance that it wasn’t an accident?”

“State boys handled it. They didn’t come up with anything indicating foul play that I know of.” Watson glanced at Fleming, as if he needed to explain. “I came across it when I was looking into this business for Christo. It’s all a matter of public record.” He tugged at his collar then looked at Perry. “Last time I told you about this, you didn’t have much to say. You have any new thoughts in light of what’s happened?”

Given what had happened to him on this case, Perry wasn’t sure he believed in accidents anymore. Her parents had died “accidentally,” and now Julia had slipped off her balcony or jumped.

And even if he did still believe in accidents, Perry sure as hell didn’t believe in coincidences. He wanted to know what was really going on, but that was hard to do when you were the one under the microscope.

“Anyway,” Perry said, trying hard to keep it matter-of-fact, “while Julia would get half the money, supposedly the other half was due Angel on her twenty-first birthday. Assuming the papers were signed in time.”

“Why look for the daughter?” Fleming asked, frowning. He’d gotten interested enough to stop playing smart-ass. “If she didn’t sign the papers, wouldn’t Julia, her mom, have kept it all?”

“Maybe Julia was less… pragmatic than you, Detective.”

“Especially if she was dying,” Watson put in. “She wanted to find the daughter, repair whatever it was that got broken between them, then make sure her daughter was set for life.”

“That’s what I don’t get,” Perry admitted. “If all that’s true, then why the hell did Julia jump before she knew whether or not I’d found her daughter?”

Watson seemed about to reply when a burly detective stuck his head into the room. “Henry, someone here to see you.”

“Busy,” Watson said, waving off the detective.

The big cop raised an eyebrow. “It’s Angelina Loki,” he said.

The three seated men traded looks.

Watson said, “Send her in.”

They all rose as the burly detective stepped aside and two women entered the interview room. The blond and beautiful Angel Loki appeared tiny next to Athena Williams, the African American woman who ushered her in, a firm arm wrapped around her charge.

As Perry made the introductions, the burly detective brought in another chair, placed it next to the one Perry had used, then exited and shut the door.

Her hair tied back in a conservative ponytail, a single strand of pearls riding her black silk blouse, Angel already seemed to be dressed in mourning clothes. The tissue clutched in one hand, occasionally dabbing at her eyes, confirmed that.

The nanny had changed, too: a dark dress instead of the designer jeans she’d been wearing when Perry last saw her. She carried a purse so big and heavy that Perry half expected her to pull out a small lawyer, should one be needed.

Stepping forward, Watson said, “We’re terribly sorry for your loss, Ms. Loki.”

“Thank you.” Her voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

The detective waved them to the two chairs, while he and Fleming took the other two, leaving Perry to lean against a wall.

Sitting, Angel said, “So, then… it’s true? My mother is… she’s dead?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Watson said. “We were searching for you to inform you — how did you hear?”

Angel turned to her nanny as if unable to respond.

“One of those twenty-four-hour news channels,” Athena said. “It’s on the TV already. They were just guessing, of course… but Angel, she knew it was her mama right away.”

Perry ran a hand over his face. Damn twenty-four-hour news cycle meant the vultures were pouncing faster than ever; speculation had long since replaced reporting. They didn’t give a good goddamn about the families. But then, how would Angel know it was her mother if the news hadn’t actually said so?

“What made you think, know it was your mother, Angel?” Perry asked.

“Well, they—” Angel stammered. “They gave the address, so I just thought—”

The nanny stepped in. “That’s a rude question at a time like this, Mr. Christo.”

“What happened to my mother?” Angel asked, now choking back sobs.

“I thought you saw it on the news,” Perry said.

“I did but—”

Perry studied her, the tilt of her head, the tissue to her eyes. He watched Watson grow uncomfortable, and even the smart-ass Fleming was doing his level best to disappear into his chair. Angel had that effect on men.

Finally, the older detective said, “We’re still gathering evidence, and waiting for the coroner’s report. But it would appear your mother took her own life.”

Angel’s eyes widened, but still there were no real tears that Perry could see. “How?”

“I’m sorry. Indications are that she jumped from her balcony.”

While one arm remained around Angel’s shoulders, Athena’s free hand shot to her mouth, clutching at herself.

Looking toward the PI, Angel said through splayed fingers, “Mr. Christo must have told you that my mother was terminally ill. She probably didn’t want to… to go through the pain of a long, slow death.” Bitterness now edged the sorrowful little voice. “She hated pain… probably even more than she hated being married to my father.”

Perry thought that the illness might explain a leap to her death — despite the horror of the fall, the pain from a drop at that height would be over in an instant. Not that he was convinced. But why now the remark about her father and mother’s marriage? And why the look of shock if she had watched the news report and already knew it was her mother who had jumped? He was about to ask when Watson cut in.

“I know this is difficult, Ms. Loki, but there are some questions I need to ask you.”

“Now?”

“I’m sorry, yes. Suicides fall under the broader umbrella of homicide, and the more quickly the facts can be gathered in any homicide, the more likely we can ascertain what actually happened.”

She processed that momentarily, then nodded.

“I need to know where were you today?”

Angel’s eyes widened again. “What… am I a suspect? I thought you said this was a suicide.”

Watson shook his head, though there was no enthusiasm in it. “At this stage, it’s a suspicious death. Procedure requires asking all family members and close friends this kind of question.” He gestured to the little recorder. “And I should note that our conversation is on the record.”

Angel drew in breath loudly, but her “All right” was barely audible.

Watson repeated his question.

Wiping away a stray tear, eyes moving with thought, she said, “I was… I was napping in Athena’s back room.”

The nanny nodded her corroboration.

“All day?”

Angel said, “After speaking to Mr. Christo, well… that was so emotional. I’m sure you understand, Detective. Hearing that my mother wanted to make amends, and realizing all that money was coming, it was very… I just needed… to rest for a while.”

“All right,” Watson said, with a couple of barely perceptible nods. “Since you brought it up, was your meeting with Mr. Christo the first time you’d heard about the inheritance from your grandfather?”

“No. My father told me.”

Not exactly the way she’d explained it to me, thought Perry. He replayed the conversation they’d had in Brooklyn, how Angel had appeared to know all about it when she’d asked…

Did she tell you how much money?

Let’s just say she made it clear that the stakes were high. For both of you.

I’ll say they’re high. High enough for her to want me dead so she can get her claws on all of it.

“You and your mother didn’t get along,” Fleming said, not a question.

“That’s true,” Angel said without hesitation. “I blamed her for breaking up her marriage to my father. That’s why I chose to live with him on Long Island, rather than with her.”

After Norman Loki’s recent drunken performance, Perry found it tough to buy that Angel would have chosen the guy; but maybe he was the lesser of two evils.

Watson now: “When was the last time you saw your mother?”

“Almost a year ago. Mother made this big production out of us burying the hatchet, but we argued so much that… we almost ended up burying it in each other.” Her laugh was small yet large with bitterness. “It was a disaster.”

“So, then… the two of you were still feuding?” Watson asked.

“At that time,” Angel said, tissue dabbing at her eyes again. “But… ”

“You didn’t contact her?”

“I thought she was still angry. It wasn’t until Mr. Christo here came around, and said my mother wanted to make peace, and told me about the money. Truly, I believed with all my heart that she still… still hated me.” She looked at Perry. “I know it sounds terrible to say, but all she ever seemed to care about was her stuff — her jewelry, her homes, and her great big Jackson Pollock painting.”

Then, the tears came, and the nanny was patting Angel’s shoulder as if tending to a grieving child. And wasn’t she? Or was it a performance? Perry wasn’t sure, but it didn’t add up. Angel had just said her father told her about the money. What else had he told her? And when?

Before they could continue, the burly detective stuck his head in again.

“What now?” Watson boomed.

“Now Norman Loki is here.”

Hands spread, palms to the sky, Watson threw a look to Perry. “Apparently, Mayor Bloomberg couldn’t tear himself away today.”

The burly cop didn’t react to the sarcasm.

Watson sighed and said, “Show him in, show him in — might as well have the whole family in here.”

What’s left of it, Perry thought.

Within seconds, the big detective was leading Norman Loki in. Father immediately went to daughter, and the two hugged, though there was something tentative about it on Angel’s side, Perry thought.

The nanny immediately took a step back, as if she didn’t want to be anywhere near Norman Loki.

Still holding his daughter, Loki said, “I drove in from Long Island, soon as I heard.”

Perry almost asked why before remembering this wasn’t his interview, at least not his side of it. Better to keep his mouth shut.

Loki wore a sport jacket, a Hawaiian shirt with parrots on it, lightweight slacks, and loafers with no socks. Somewhere along the way, he had confused Fire Island in the summer with Long Island in the dead of winter.

Watson told Fleming to take Angel and her nanny to the break room and get them some coffee while he spoke to Mr. Loki.

The younger detective did as he was told, and Perry continued leaning against the wall, staying mum.

When the room was cleared, Watson sat down opposite the dead woman’s ex-husband, Perry positioned in the background between them, like an umpire presiding over a tennis match.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Watson said, an opening lob.

“Thank you,” Loki said.

Watson informed the man that their interview was being recorded. Then they volleyed over how Loki had heard about his wife’s death, why he thought she might have jumped, and so on until Watson finally started in with questions geared toward winning points.

“Mr. Loki, did you stand to inherit your wife’s estate?”

He shook his head. “No, Angel will inherit almost all of Julia’s estate. I’m the executor, so I receive a nominal fee, of course, and our divorce provided me with a small… stipend… but otherwise, I will get nothing.”

Point Loki.

Except that Perry wasn’t buying it. He cleared his throat. “First time I saw you, you denied any knowledge of the inheritance papers.”

Watson gave him a look but didn’t say anything.

“Frankly, I didn’t think it was any of your concern. And I didn’t see how it would help find my daughter.”

Clearly, he’d had time to firm up his story.

Watson asked, “Do you think Angel may have hated her mother enough to kill her?”

“Hell, no!” Loki said, and if that was supposed to be outrage, it came out undecided, at least to Perry’s ears. “There was no gain in it for her. She was going to get half the estate — more money than she could ever need, and on her twenty-first birthday, just around the corner. No, no, that makes no sense.”

Perry wondered if Loki was trying to convince them or himself. And what was it Angel had just said that was gnawing at him?

Before they could go any further, the burly detective popped in again, and Watson snapped, “What the hell is it now?”

“The ME just sent up the preliminary tox screen,” the big cop said. “I’m not tryin’ to set a record for interrupting an interview… just figured you’d wanna see this, toot sweet.” He handed Watson a file folder.

“Yeah, thanks,” Watson said, with a faint tone of apology, to the detective’s exiting backside.

Watson scanned quickly, gave Perry an unreadable glance, then turned his attention back to Loki.

“Did your ex-wife take drugs?” Watson asked.

Loki shrugged. “I wasn’t in charge of her even when we were married. But as far as I know… when we were married, anyway? No. Never did know her to take drugs. Well… almost never.”

“You’re going to clarify that, right?”

The husband sighed. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but lately… during all this unpleasantness with Angel’s disappearance… I gave Julia a bunch of my sleeping pills. She asked, and I gave. I’m sure she could have gotten them from her doctor, but I had them, so I didn’t see anything wrong with it… Why, is there a problem?”

Watson was shaking his head, and Christo felt as if he already knew what was coming; but he still felt a little sick when Watson said, “Your ex-wife had tranquilizers in her system when she died.”

A hand that went to Loki’s mouth, but he stayed quiet.

“We’ll have to wait for the full autopsy,” Watson said, “but it does make it look like Julia may have taken her own life… Again, I’m sorry for your loss. I need to speak to Mr. Christo a moment alone. If you could just wait in the hall, briefly…?”

Loki nodded, sighed, took a long time getting to his feet but no time at all leaving the room.

Then Perry sat down across from Watson again, though the former leveled the first question to the latter.

“Come on, Henry. You know something doesn’t feel right about this one.”

The detective shrugged, his expression both weary and frustrated. “What? The woman was terminally ill, distraught. She took some pills and threw herself off the balcony. What’s not to feel right?”

Perry shook his head. “I told her I was close to finding Angel. If you hire a PI to find your estranged daughter, and you know he’s getting close, is that the time you pick to kill yourself?”

“You and I both know suicides always leave a lot of questions behind,” Watson said. “If she was in pain, hell… maybe it just got to be too much for her.”

“Maybe,” Perry said with no conviction.

Watson let out his biggest sigh yet, and that was saying something. He clicked off the little digital recorder. “That’s it. For now.”

As Perry rose and walked out of the interview room, he couldn’t help but feel that he was missing something important. And so was Watson.

Suicides were unpredictable, all right. But mothers, where the welfare of their children were concerned, were among the most predictable creatures on the planet. And he could not see Julia slipping over that ledge when possible reconciliation with her daughter was so nearly at hand.