Inherit the Dead

3 MARCIA CLARK

Perry squinted through his windshield, taking in the barren white dunes to his right, the rolling, black ocean to his left, and the vast, gray canopy of sky. As he shifted his gaze back to the wide two-lane highway that had finally emptied out of traffic, he was suddenly conscious of a strange, unsettled feeling.

Now that he thought about it, the feeling had begun to creep in a while ago, hovering just below consciousness. He again scanned the austere landscape searching for an answer. And found it. Openness. That’s what it was. The sense of near-limitless space. And quiet. No concrete canyons that echoed with eardrum-shattering horns, no teeming-humanity sidewalks. It should have been soothing. Instead, it made him anxious, scared. As though he was floating alone and untethered through space. Perry struggled to rationalize the sensation, reasoned with himself that it was just a reaction to the long stretches of lonely road, but the panic continued to surge. He was barely breathing.

He quickly rolled down the window and gulped cold, wet blasts of air. The sobering slap brought him back to earth, and he huffed with relief. But the relief brought only disgust. What kind of loser gets freaked by some empty sand dunes? A familiar lead weight sank in his chest. As usual, he’d found yet another way to despise himself. And no sooner had that feeling wormed its way to the surface than the march of Perry’s parade of horribles began: his ruined career on the force, his failed marriage, a daughter he loved dearly but saw only on weekends, and sometimes not even then. He gripped the steering wheel in frustration. He didn’t have time for this now. With an effort that was almost physical, Perry forced his mind to push down the lid on that treasure chest and work on the problem at hand: Julia Drusilla.

What was her angle? After years as a homicide dick, Perry accepted nothing and no one at face value (his ex-wife used to say he’d been that way long before he was a cop — he’d always tell her he doubted that). Julia Drusilla claimed she wanted the chance to reconnect with her daughter. Perry could identify with the sentiment, but that didn’t mean he believed her. Yet he couldn’t think of any other reason for Julia to want to find her daughter. The usual motive — money — didn’t work. If Angel didn’t turn up in time to sign the papers, the entire inheritance would go to Julia. So as far as Julia’s financial empire went, things only looked rosier if Angel stayed gone.

On the other hand, if Julia was so bent out of shape by her estrangement from Angel, why wait a year to reach out? And why had it taken everyone two weeks to figure out that they should call in the troops to help find the girl? The pieces didn’t fit. But that didn’t worry him. Not yet. The jigsaw puzzle couldn’t come together when all he had were pieces of sky. With a little luck, the interview he was headed for now would give him at least one central piece of the puzzle: Norman Loki, Angel’s father.

The fact that Norman Loki had wound up with custody of the girl child had surprised him, no matter what Julia said. In Perry’s case, his lawyer had nixed the idea of even trying for custody. Teenage daughter goes with mom, end of story. He didn’t like it, but given his circumstances, he didn’t have the stones to put up a fight. That didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt… badly. He’d been a good father. Hell, a great one. At least he’d tried to be. So maybe that was Julia’s angle: having been knocked for a loop after losing custody — even though she denied it — she finally felt strong enough to fight for her daughter.

Perry sat with that idea for a few moments, then shook his head. That wasn’t it, either. The steely crone who’d hired him didn’t get “thrown” by much, if anything. And certainly not by loss of custody. When he’d met Julia, he’d been prepared for the rage and recriminations that usually swirled through these family dramas. But there’d been none of that. Julia had been as icy cool as a dry martini.

Even when it came to a discussion of her ex — a topic almost guaranteed to kick up clouds of wrath — she’d barely reacted. She’d handed him Norman Loki’s information as though she were sharing her prescription for a colonoscopy. No anger, just distaste. The neutrality of her response had intrigued him enough to put in a call the moment he’d left her apartment to a source at the Post, who might have the dirt on their divorce. Only, surprisingly, there was none. The reporter had called him back an hour ago with the news that the divorce had been fairly civilized. No trial, no hearings, but most important, no custody battle. Just a rapid settlement with the bare minimum in court appearances. Lord knew, if anyone had the means to tear into a fight over who gets “baby,” it was Julia Drusilla.

No, whatever was driving Julia’s current zeal to find her daughter, it wasn’t hurt feelings over custody.

The shoreline up to that point had been narrow and rocky, uninviting. But now, a sizable stretch of white sand beach came into view, the kind where you see handsome couples strolling hand in hand as if in a Viagra commercial. And signs of civilization were beginning to appear. Homes — okay, mansions — but informal, ranch-style mansions, with wraparound porches and grounds filled with hardy shrubs and squat wild-looking trees, dotted both sides of the highway. As dialed down as these manses were, Perry knew the smallest of them cost at least a few million. And the limited number that occupied the bluffs overlooking the ocean went for a great deal more. Norman Loki had scored one of them.

Perry spotted the road that led up to Loki’s place just ahead. He pulled off the highway and followed a private lane until it stopped in front of a five-car garage. Only five cars. Nice to know the rich could rough it when they had to. Perry didn’t see any security gates or cameras. But he guessed that made sense. Why would burglars make the trek out to the edge of the world when there was a whole city’s worth of conveniently located marks within walking distance?

Looking for a place to park, Perry noticed a weather-beaten Jeep whose scarred and pitted paint said it had habitually been left out in the cold. Thinking that Jeep would make good company for his ancient Datsun with its dangling exhaust pipe, Perry parked alongside it. He climbed out and started to lock the doors then looked from the Jeep to the Datsun. He put the keys back in his pocket.

Out here on the bluff, the wind cut into Perry like an icy blade. He wrapped Nicky’s scarf around his neck and dipped his head to spare his face but willfully left his trench coat open (a wardrobe choice he freely admitted was a bit on the nose, but he liked the zip-out lining feature — currently zipped in).

The ranch-style house looked to be about ten thousand square feet, judging from the size of its bleached-white facade. Like the other houses in the area, it had a generous veranda that wrapped around the entire perimeter and several large shuttered windows. Just beyond the house, Perry spotted the pool. He climbed the steps to the front door, then stopped and turned to enjoy the view for a moment. The sky and ocean blended to form a vast, seamless gray expanse that made Perry feel smaller than a grain of sand. Oddly, the thought relaxed him.

Through the door, he heard Jimi Hendrix crooning his mournful version of “Hey Joe.” Perry let his hand hover over the doorbell to listen for a moment. When he finally pushed the button, it played some tune, something sweet and syrupy. Was it “The Impossible Dream,” of all things? Jesus. Luckily, it played for only a few seconds and he got another full minute to listen to Hendrix’s guitar solo. He had just raised his hand to try knocking when he heard a man call out, “Yeah, I’m coming, gimme a sec.”

Perry instinctively reached for his badge and gun, preparing to bang the door open, then stopped himself. Shook his head. Old habits died hard. Whatever this guy was hiding — and it was a fair assumption he was hiding something—it was unlikely to have anything to do with Angel.

Thirty seconds later, a man Perry presumed was Norman Loki stood in the doorway.

In spite of the near-freezing temperature, Loki’s feet were bare. And very well-tended feet they were. At a glance, the rest of him looked equally as well groomed. But his wardrobe choices were a strange, almost dissonant counterpoint. His jeans were holed out and ripped, but they were neatly rolled to a precise few inches above shapely golden, and seemingly hairless ankles. His T-shirt (bearing the bull’s skull logo that even Perry — no big fan of the group — recognized as that of the Grateful Dead, circa 1970s) was thin and faded, but sparkling clean. A silver skull pendant hung from a leather cord around his neck, and an engraved leather cuff snapped around his wrist. Hippie-esque threads on a country-club body just starting to lose its battle against time.

Perry would’ve tagged Norman’s age at no more than mid-to-late forties had he stopped at the neck, but the face edged his estimate up by about twenty years. Though still blondly handsome, time — and no doubt sun — had leached the bounce from his cheeks, turned the few remaining wisps of hair to straw, and left deep creases in the skin around his large, age-paled blue eyes. Still, there was a gap between body and face that seemed to be commonplace among baby boomers. Perry guessed that meant his own nascent paunch, despite hours spent at the gym, showed he was part of the younger generation. Nice to know all those beer and pizza dinners were good for something.

Behind Loki, an impressive stack of wood was burning fast and high in a large, brick fireplace. The heat rolling out of it gave Perry welcome relief from the stinging cold wind that whipped behind him.

Loki peered at him cautiously. “You the PI?”

“Yep.” Perry held up his ID. “You Norman Loki?”

“Yeah. Come on in, man. It’s a bitch out there.”

Julia Drusilla had obviously called ahead to announce his arrival.

Perry walked into what he imagined the interior decorators called a “great room,” and he had to admit, it earned its name. Three thousand square feet of gleaming wood floors, thick Oriental rugs, and overstuffed, comfy-looking furniture for sitting, lounging, sleeping, and “hanging.” The high, wood-beamed ceilings gave a sense of spaciousness but also warmth.

“Get you something to drink?” Loki offered. “Warm you up a little.”

“Thanks, no,” Perry said, with regret. It would’ve been nice to kick back with a shot of whiskey in front of that blazing fire on a day like this. He supposed he could opt for something wimpy, like tea, but that would only make him miss the whiskey more. “I’m good.”

He recalled Julia’s comment about her ex-husband: He drinks… or did… and when he does… But he’s stopped drinking… at least I think so.

Norman took his coat and directed him to a pair of matching leather lounge-style chairs with ottomans near the fireplace. Perry sat and immediately found himself sinking back into the down-filled cushions. If he’d been alone, he would’ve been asleep in seconds. He pulled himself up and perched on the edge of the chair. Loki settled into the lounger opposite him and swung his feet up onto the ottoman in one elegant movement. On the wall behind Loki, Perry noticed a framed diploma from Harvard Law School.

“You still practice?” Perry asked, nodding at the diploma.

“Ah… no, not really. Not anymore.” Loki smiled. “And don’t worry, I never did criminal defense.” His smile twisted with a shrewd look. “Bet you hated those guys.”

Either Julia Drusilla’s heads-up phone call to Loki had been a lot newsier than she had let on, or he had done a little quick digging into Perry’s bona fides on his own. Perry suspected the former. Loki didn’t seem like the digging type. Unless it was for clams. Perry shrugged. “Most of ’em were okay. They had their jobs; I had mine. So what was your game?”

“I had a civil rights practice.”

“Which means?” Perry asked, though knew very well.

“Employment discrimination, an occasional wrongful death, that sort of thing. I loved it. Cases I could believe in, where I could do some good for the little guy.”

Perry nodded, but his bullshit meter was ringing. “But you quit because…?”

Loki sighed. “Because the big corporate lobbies brought in tort reform. Killed my entire practice. Basically shut down the courtrooms for everyone but their cronies.”

“Gee, that’s a bitch. But I’ve got to hand it to you — those employment discrimination cases are tough. You ever go up against any of the bigs, like IBM or Mercedes-Benz?”

Loki’s stricken expression told Perry he’d rightly guessed that Loki’s experience went no further than the noble, well-rehearsed speech he’d just given. Unfortunately for him, Perry knew something about the field. When Perry got shamed out of his uniform, a real civil rights lawyer had lobbied hard to get him to file suit against the department. She was convinced he’d been framed and was gung ho to prove it. Perry had thought about it, had wanted to get the chance to go public with the truth. It didn’t bother him that it would be an ugly street brawl of a trial. What did was the knowledge that he couldn’t win — on any level. The fix was in, the truth didn’t matter, and it probably would never even be known, given the kind of press coverage he’d get. So ultimately, he’d declined. But in the process, he’d learned a few things about employment discrimination cases — as the man squirming across from him had just found out the hard way.

Loki licked his lips and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Uh… no, not really. I guess you could say I handled the less… complicated cases.”

Or, Perry thought, you could say that Loki is a bald-faced liar. But Loki’s nervous retreat made it clear he knew he’d been busted. All to the good. Nothing like a little shaming to inspire honesty. “How’d you and Julia cross paths?”

Loki’s eyes darted anxiously around the room, managing to hit everywhere but the place where Perry was sitting. “A dinner for new associates. I started out at Schilling, Stearns and Castleman.”

Perry recognized the name. It was a high-power, multinational corporate firm. The kind only Harvard Law grads with big connects got into. The kind that represented those Goliath corporations Loki had just declaimed.

“So you met Julia shortly after you passed the bar?”

Loki took a deep breath and stretched his legs. “Yep. Married for thirty-two glorious, fun-filled years.” Though Loki said it with a tinge of irony, his voice held no rancor. In fact, Perry thought, his tone seemed a little wistful.

“Whose idea was it, the divorce?”

Loki turned toward the fire. Without meeting Perry’s eyes, he replied, “It was what you might call a mutually agreed upon parting of the ways.”

Should Perry pursue the issue? Loki and Julia Drusilla’s relationship might be relevant to Angel’s disappearance, but then again, it might not. Before he could make up his mind, Loki leaned forward, his face tight. “Look, you’re not, like, a real cop anymore, right?”

Perry tried not to wince. The admission still had the power to wound. “No.”

“It’s just that, this whole situation… it’s got me kind of stressed out. I really need to power down, man.”

“Have at it,” Perry said. Relaxed meant talkative. Fine by him.

Loki moved to the fireplace and reached under a framed photo of the Beatles (autographed by all four) walking barefoot at Abbey Road. It swung open to reveal a safelike cavity. Only there were no stock certificates or bundles of cash. There was just a large-size ziplock baggie of weed, an assortment of pipes, and one multicolored, blown-glass bong. Loki took out a small brass pipe and held up the baggie in silent invitation.

Apparently Norman Loki had exchanged the booze for the bong.

Perry’d always hated the stuff. It made him paranoid. And slow. And it stank. “No, thanks. But by all means… ”

After three long, loving tokes, Loki slid back in his chair and put his feet up. His eyes were red but a lot less darty. “Now where were we?”

“We were just chatting about what caused your divorce.”

“Oh, right.” That wistful tone again. “Let’s just say we found we had one too many things in common.”

Perry waited, hoping the old trick of silence would make Loki jump in to fill the gap. But Loki wasn’t jumping anywhere. His gaze drifted complacently over Perry’s right shoulder and out through the window to the dark ocean. Perry sighed. Note to self: next time a witness says he needs to relax, hum something by Enya.

“I understand Angel’s been missing for two weeks?”

“Yeah.” Loki pulled his attention back with an effort. “Last time I saw her, she said she was going up to Hartford to see a showing with Lilith.”

“Does Lilith have a last name?”

“Bates. She’s Angel’s latest BFF.”

Perry would follow up on that shortly. “And what was the showing of?”

“Art. Something modern, I think. Lilith is an artist.” Loki’s mouth curved in a smirk. “ ‘She don’t look back.’ ” He glanced at Perry. “That’s—”

“Bob Dylan, yeah, I know. Did Angel tell you where they were staying up there?”

Loki’s expression sobered. “I know where she said they were staying. The Sheraton. But when I couldn’t reach her on her cell, I called the hotel, and they said no one by that name had ever checked in.”

“I assume you also checked under Lilith’s name.”

Loki gave Perry a look that said he was stoned, not a stoned idiot.

“Have you been able to reach Lilith?”

“I called her right after I called the hotel. She said she hadn’t gone to Hartford, didn’t know of any art showing, and didn’t recall Angel ever saying she was going there. Said she hadn’t seen Angel since… I guess it would be the day I last saw her.”

“So Lilith and Angel are close? How long have they known each other?”

Loki squinted. “A year? Probably less.” Loki shook his head. “Angel goes through BFFs the way Limbaugh goes through oxy. Always has. I give their little ‘womance’ six months tops before Angel gets tired of her.”

Pretty tough talk for a dad whose daughter was missing. But it was probably the most honest answer he’d given so far.

“You think Angel might be a little… flighty?” Perry asked.

Loki sighed. “In all fairness, probably no more than any other spoiled rich girl would be in her situation. But to just disappear this way… ” Loki’s mouth turned down.

“Has she ever done this before?”

“Not for this long. She’d fall off the radar for a day, maybe three days. But never more than that.”

“When was the last time?”

Loki stared off until Perry was ready to knock on his head to see if anyone was home, but finally, he continued. “About a year ago. She was supposed to go to her cousin’s wedding in Boston. Instead, she wound up in Woodstock. Never even made it to the reception. No heads-up, no apologies.”

“How’d you find her?”

“She eventually called. But it took a while, which worried me because I’d been leaving messages on her cell and she never turns it off. Keeps that thing glued to her side twenty-four/seven. Every time I called, it went straight to voice mail. Three days after the wedding, she finally got in touch. Said she couldn’t call before because there was no signal where they were staying.”

“Did you believe her?”

Loki shrugged. “Why would she make something like that up?”

Perry thought, Because sliding up to Woodstock and missing her cousin’s wedding might have been the least of it? But it was a year too late for that talk.

“Woodstock,” Perry said. “Does she usually go in for retro, hippie stuff like that?” Perry watched the other man for a grin, a raised eyebrow, some sign of recognition about apples and their proximity to the trees they fall from. Nada.

“Not necessarily. Angel’s just… adventuresome.”

“Does she go to school?”

Loki’s face brightened. “Sure did. She went to Vassar. Graduated in three years. With honors.” He stood up. “I’m parched. You sure you don’t want anything to drink? Water?”

“Sure, water’s fine.”

When Loki returned with two large crystal glasses of water, Perry asked, “Graduated in three years with honors? That’s quite a feat.” Especially for the girl Loki had just described.

Loki settled back into his chair, took a long swallow of water, and nodded. “She’s definitely got brains. And obviously discipline, too — when it suits her.” An edge of disappointment slid under the pride in his voice.

“But?”

“But it turned out the only thing she really cared about was getting done with school as soon as possible. She kept her grades up because she knew that if she didn’t, she’d get hell from me.”

“Not from her mother?”

“They rarely spoke.”

Loki glanced at the side table where he’d set down his pipe. Perry knew if he picked it up, their interview was over. He was about to knock his glass of water onto the floor to distract him, but Loki left the pipe alone and continued.

“Ever since she graduated last year, it’s been one long party.” Loki paused, shook his head.

The irony of Loki making a remark like that almost made Perry laugh out loud. He stifled the impulse by taking a long drink of water, then asked his next question. “And Angel doesn’t have any real expenses, right? She doesn’t pay rent here?”

“No.”

“So who does?”

Loki’s shoulders dropped, and he stared into the fire. “I have some investments… ”

“Might some folks call those investments ‘child support’?”

Loki shot a look at Perry out of the corner of his eye, then turned to stare into the flames. Busted — again — he didn’t even try to argue.

For a few moments, the only sounds were the crackle and pop of the wood. A log rolled off the top, and Loki picked up a poker and shoved it back away from the screen.

When he sat down, he dropped his head into his hands. “Having to call Julia last week and tell her that I’d basically lost our daughter was one of the worst days of my life.” When he finally met Perry’s gaze, his face was haggard. “Look, I know I wasn’t the best dad, but I wasn’t the worst, either. I may have been a little too permissive. But one thing I can say for sure: Angel always knew I loved her, which was a lot more than Julia—” Loki stopped abruptly.

“So there never was any love lost between those two?”

Loki pressed his lips together. “Honestly, I don’t know. The dynamic between mothers and daughters… it’s always complicated, isn’t it? You have kids?”

“I do. But my daughter isn’t about to inherit a fortune.”

Loki’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

Perry studied him for a long moment. “You don’t know that Angel gets access to a sizable trust fund on her twenty-first birthday?”

Loki sat forward. “This is the first I’ve ever heard of it.”

Perry’s bullshit meter was ringing again, though he wasn’t sure why the man would bother to lie. Maybe he was pretending to be shocked so no one would think he’d been Mr. Cool, Permissive Dad all those years in order to curry favor with his soon-to-be-stinkin’-rich daughter. Or, on a more sinister note, maybe there was something in it for Norman Loki if Angel didn’t claim her share of the inheritance. Perry was going to have to drill down on the exact terms of that trust fund. Loki’s reaction didn’t ring true. It seemed a little… forced, over the top. Perry waited, hoping silence would lure him into saying something he’d regret. Frequently, silence was the best interrogator. But after several moments went by without a word, Perry was forced to concede it wasn’t working this time.

Perry replied, “That’s actually part of the reason Julia wants Angel to be found right away. Angel has to sign the papers on her twenty-first birthday to get that money.”

Loki broke into a laugh. And not a little chuckle, either. A big, hefty, belly shaking, “Ha-ha-ha.”

“I take it you don’t believe that,” Perry said. “According to Julia, she doesn’t need Angel’s share of the money.”

When his laughter had scaled down to a few stray chortles, Loki responded. “Oh, no doubt that’s true. Julia’s got more money than the Vatican. I just find it difficult to believe in this sudden… well, never mind.”

Perry didn’t want to never mind, but Loki had made it clear he wouldn’t share any more than he had to about his ex-wife. His protective attitude toward her was puzzling… or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just a wise decision not to bite the hand that fed him. And was probably still feeding him.

“I’ll need Angel’s cell phone number—” Perry said.

“Of course. I’ll write it down for you.” Loki stood.

“And while you’re at it, I’ll need Lilith’s information, too.”

Loki nodded. “Good idea.” Loki went over to a small writing desk against the wall, wrote down the information.

He gave Perry the piece of paper, then held out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Christo—”

Perry shook his hand. “Call me Perry.”

“Perry. Whatever you may think of… all this, I am extremely worried about Angel.”

At that moment, the doorbell chimed its absurd little tune. “That’ll be my trainer.” Loki retrieved Perry’s coat from the couch and handed it to him. “Whatever you need, please feel free to call me.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Loki opened the door to reveal one of the few men Perry had ever seen who truly deserved to be described as an Adonis. Well over six feet tall, with wavy, shoulder-length blond hair and pecs so large they showed through his waffle shirt. The warm smile he’d aimed at Loki turned to puzzlement when he saw Perry.

Loki quickly introduced them, and the man recovered his one-hundred-watt smile. After enduring his bone-crushing handshake, Perry bid them farewell. The moment the door closed, he wiggled his fingers to work out the kinks from that death grip.

As Perry turned to go, he heard the two men laughing. He slowly walked down the porch steps then stopped. It seemed odd that a worried father would have a trainer come out at a time like this. Odder still that he’d be in the mood to laugh. About anything.

As he drove down the private road back toward the highway, Perry mentally replayed his interview with Loki, the aging, dependently wealthy hipster. A bit of a poser, a big doper, but a kidnapper? A killer? Hard to believe. Then again, how could a lawyer not know about his own daughter’s inheritance? And if he did know, why lie about it?

Perry sighed as he turned onto the empty highway. The interview that was supposed to give him a central piece of the puzzle had instead only delivered more questions. The scream of a lone seagull pierced the sky above him. Perry looked up and nodded. “Yeah, I’m with you, buddy.”

You don’t have to drive down the road to find out why the private eye has come here and who he’s come to see because you know exactly who he is talking to.

You wait by the side of the road, car under the trees, hidden in the shadows, trying to imagine their conversation while you gnaw on a PowerBar to keep up your energy. You’ve got a whole bag of them, plus apples and juice boxes. You’re prepared.

You think about all those mansions you’ve passed, the way these people live, and you’re going to have it, too, because you deserve it, and you don’t care who gets hurt. Somebody always gets hurt, but not you, not this time.

You’re trying to picture it, your new life, when the PIs junk heap of a car comes rattling back down the private lane and he’s so damn preoccupied he doesn’t even look your way, just turns onto the main road, and you wait a couple of minutes so as not to arouse suspicion then turn the key in the ignition and follow under a sky with low dark clouds like filthy rags and feel a kind of electricity coursing through your body, hands tingling on the steering wheel because this is what you’ve been waiting for.