Sacrificial Ground

7

It was almost ten when Frank got to the offices of Arthur Cummings. They spread out across the top floor of one of the city’s most elegant towers, and as he stepped into its spacious reception area, Frank could almost hear the rustle of the hundreds of briefs and motions and appeals which had paid for it. The carpet was scarlet, and very thick, and the paneled walls were decked with a lavish display of paintings. A brass chandelier hung from the ceiling, and its bright light fell over an array of flowers and potted plants.

The receptionist sat behind a large wooden desk, her fingers moving nimbly over a bank of phones. She was dressed in a skirt and blouse that were almost as red as the carpeting, and she had the pliant, yet calculating look of a woman who knows that she is surrounded by rich and powerful men.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked as Frank stepped up to her desk.

Her tone was a bit stiff, and Frank noticed that her eyes gave him a quick, dismissive glance, the sort that falls on all the wrong things, the slight stain on his tie, the unpolished shoes, the suit from so many seasons past that she seemed to be surprised that such relics still survived in her more modem world. It was the kind of look that reduced one kind of man while it exalted another, and under it, Frank felt himself utterly reduced, a ragamuffin cop with a swollen eye and a pocketful of loose change.

“You wish to see someone?” the woman asked.

“Arthur Cummings,” Frank said crisply.

“Mr. Cummings?” the woman asked doubtfully.

“Yes.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to make one.”

Frank shook his head. “I don’t have time for that.”

The woman stared at him lethally. “What was that?”

“Is Cummings here?”

The woman did not reply. Instead, she looked at him as if she knew quite well that any further discussion would be held in the lobby between Frank and the building’s largest security officer.

“As I mentioned,” she said in a cool, measured tone, “Mr. Cummings does not see anyone without an appointment.”

Frank took out his badge and waved it in front of her face.

The woman leaned forward and looked at it closely, checking to see if it were authentic, or just some tin star he’d bought at a novelty store.

“You’re with the Atlanta police?” she asked finally.

Frank nodded. “Badge number one one four seven, if you want to take it down.”

The woman sat back stiffly. “That won’t be necessary.” She paused a moment, her eyes checking him out once again. “May I know what this is about?”

“No,” Frank said, “I think that Mr. Cummings would want that to remain confidential.”

“Very well,” the woman said. “Please be seated. I’ll see what I can do for you.” She stood up quickly, then walked back into one of the suites of offices at the rear.

Frank turned slowly and strolled around the room. The paintings drew his attention and he walked from one to another, carefully looking at each in turn. They were all of places in what Frank took to be Paris, street scenes of cafés and expansive boulevards, huge arches and sweeping parks. The colors were bright, even garish, and he didn’t like them very much. There was too much peace and gaiety pushing out the facts of life as he saw them, and for a moment he tried to imagine why anyone would hang only such pictures. He wondered if Cummings himself had selected them, and if so, why? To relieve the gray monotony of corporate law, perhaps, or to present a view of life which seemed possible for him once he’d won enough cases, garnered enough fees and could then sit back and sip a glass of wine in a street cafe exactly as thousands of far less wealthy and distinguished people did quite absently and without a thought every single day.

He was still brooding over the general tone of the paintings when the receptionist returned.

“Mr. Clemons,” she said, “Mr. Cummings will see you now.”

“Thank you.”

“Just follow me, please,” the woman said. Then she turned briskly and led Frank down a long, very wide corridor which finally spread out into yet another large reception area. There was another woman behind another wooden desk. She was young and very elegantly dressed, and she flashed Frank a pleasant smile which he instantly distrusted.

“I’m Mr. Cummings’ executive secretary,” she said. She glanced coolly at the other woman. “That’ll be all, Amy.”

Her eyes shifted back to Frank. “I understand you’re with the police.”

“That’s right.”

“And this is some sort of official visit?”

“Yes.”

“Are you interested in engaging the firm in some way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you seeking legal counsel? For yourself, I mean?”

“No,” Frank said.

The woman jotted down a note, and Frank wondered just how many layers of the servant class he was going to have to penetrate before he reached Arthur Cummings.

“I don’t have all day,” he said finally.

The woman looked up. She looked as if he had spit in her face. “What’s that?”

“I want to see Arthur Cummings,” Frank said bluntly. “And I don’t have all day.”

“Well, Mr. Cummings usually sees people only by appointment.”

“This is a murder investigation,” Frank said.

The woman’s eyes widened.

“Now why don’t you press that little button on your phone there, or whatever it is you press, and tell Mr. Cummings that I’m coming in.”

The buzzer was still sounding in Cummings’ office as Frank came through the double mahogany doors.

Arthur Cummings looked as if his fortress had been breached by a barbarian army. He stood up slowly, glaring into Frank’s eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue suit that looked as if it had never been worn for more than forty minutes. He was tall, slender, with a head of blindingly white hair.

Frank displayed his badge. “I don’t mean to be difficult, Mr. Cummings,” he said quietly, “but I have a lot to do, and seeing you is first on my list.”

A slight smile swept over Cummings’ face. “I see,” he said. “Well, why don’t you sit down?”

Frank sat down in one of the chairs opposite Cummings’ desk.

Cummings continued to stand behind his desk, his back to an enormous window. The light that came through it turned his hair to silver.

“I must tell you, Mr. Clemons, that I’m a bit at sea as to what all this is about.”

“It’s about Angelica Devereaux.”

Cummings’ eyes darkened, and he lowered himself into his chair. For a moment he simply stared at Frank, then he leaned forward and snapped up his phone. “No calls,” he said. He placed the phone back in its cradle. “Now, what do you mean?”

“She’s dead,” Frank said. “We found her body in a vacant lot off Glenwood.”

“Off Glenwood?” Mr. Cummings asked, as if the location of her body was a good deal more incomprehensible than her death.

“We don’t know exactly how she died,” Frank said, “but we know that she couldn’t have gotten to that lot by herself.”

Cummings looked puzzled. “You mean you don’t know if she was murdered?”

“We don’t know what happened,” Frank repeated, “but we do know that at least one other person had to have been involved.” He stopped, trying to gauge how much information he should hold back. “Her death involved injection, and there were no hypodermic needles near her body.”

“So others must have been involved.”

“At least one.”

Mr. Cummings nodded. “How terrible,” he said. He seemed genuinely saddened. He folded his hands quietly over his desk and gazed at them. “She’d just begun to live.” He looked up at Frank. “So young.”

“Yes,” Frank said.

Mr. Cummings shook his head mournfully. “So very, very young.”

Frank took out his pen and notebook. “You were her guardian, I believe.”

“Who have you been speaking to?”

“Karen Devereaux.”

“Yes, well, guardian is a legal description in this case,” Cummings said. “It is a technical term.”

“What do you mean?”

“I administered her trust fund,” Cummings said, “but that’s about all.”

“Do you still administer it?”

“No. Angelica turned eighteen a few months ago. She’s her own guardian now.”

“How much money was involved?” Frank asked.

“Almost three million dollars in assets,” Cummings told him. He smiled sadly. “More than a young girl should have control of.”

“Was that cash?”

Cummings looked at Frank as if he were a small child. “Of course not. There were stocks, bonds, that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Of course, these things are easily convertible into cash. And, along with them, there was a sizable amount of what you might call ‘ready cash.’ That is to say, purely liquid assets.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars.”

Frank wrote it down. “What did she do with that money?”

“I have no idea.”

Frank looked at him doubtfully.

“It’s quite true,” Cummings said. “I have absolutely no idea. That’s what I meant by calling my guardianship purely technical.”

“Purely technical?”

“It means that I was her financial caretaker,” Cummings explained. “But as far as a personal relationship with Angelica went, I had none whatsoever. So, when she became eighteen and took charge of her own finances, we ceased to have any relationship at all.”

“She took full charge?”

“Full charge, yes,” Cummings said. “And I must admit that I didn’t think that was very wise. But as you know, Mr. Clemons, the law is the law. And in matters of this kind it is explicit. At eighteen, Angelica assumed full control of her entire inheritance. That’s that.”

Frank nodded. “When did you see her last?”

“On her birthday, as you might expect,” Cummings told him.

“When was that?”

“June seventeenth.”

“Here in your office?”

“That’s right. My legal connection to Angelica ended at that time. And, of course, there was no personal connection.”

“How did you happen to become her guardian?”

“I was named executor of the estate left at the death of Angelica’s parents.”

“Why?”

“I was a friend of her father.”

“And that was your only personal connection?”

“Yes. Angelica was, as you will probably discover, a somewhat headstrong person. I think she always rather resented my guardianship. She certainly severed it at her first opportunity.”

“Which was her eighteenth birthday.”

“Yes,” Cummings said. “I must say that I’m sorry Angelica and I never developed any kind of rapport.” He smiled quietly. “But that’s rather the way of things. I mean, I was the wall that kept her from her money.”

“How old was she when her parents died?”

“Five years old,” Cummings said. “Karen was almost eighteen. They never lived with anyone else. They simply lived together in that enormous house.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why. But I did try to be more than simply a financial advisor. They were young girls. They needed a father. I suppose I made certain efforts to play that role.”

“But they never accepted you?”

“No, they didn’t,” Cummings said. “Of course, that wasn’t entirely their fault. After all, I couldn’t be much of a father. I don’t know how to be one.”

“You don’t have any children?” Frank asked.

“I have three,” Cummings said, “but I rarely see them. They live at home with my wife.” He lifted his arms slowly. “And I live here.” He allowed his arms to drift back slowly toward the desk. “I learned a long time ago that you cannot make people love you. You cannot even make them seek your counsel.” He pushed a polished wooden box across the desk. “Would you like a cigar?”

“No.”

Cummings took out one for himself and lit it. “I deal with the law. It’s something I can understand. People? They are a mystery to me.”

“Was Angelica a mystery?”

“One of the deeper ones,” Cummings said. “Have you learned much about her?”

“I’m only beginning.”

“There may be nothing to learn,” Cummings said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, I’m no great judge of character, but I do know when there’s nothing there, when someone is rather empty.”

“Was Angelica like that?”

“She seemed unformed,” Cummings said. “That was my only impression.”

“Did you know that she was pregnant?”

For a moment Cummings did not answer. His eyes grew almost childlike, wondering. “Yes,” he said. “I could hardly have been more surprised.”

“Why?”

“Because of exactly what I mentioned,” Cummings said. “The fact that she seemed so unformed. I could not imagine her making love. So beautiful, yes. Very desirable, no doubt. But actually making that flesh-and-blood decision, and then going through with it? I couldn’t imagine Angelica doing that.” He smiled gently. “I can’t imagine that it was pleasurable for her.”

It seemed so odd a comment that Frank wrote it down in his notebook.

“I wouldn’t put too much stock in what I say, however,” Cummings added dismissively. “I’m not a very good student of mankind.”

“How did you know she was pregnant?”

“She told me.”

“When.”

“On June seventeenth, when she came to take control of her inheritance. It was one of the reasons she gave me for wanting full control of her assets. She planned to keep the baby, or so she said. She wanted to support it herself.”

“She planned to keep it?”

“Yes,” Cummings said.

“You didn’t get the impression that she was going to get an abortion?”

“No, why?”

“Well, one idea is that she died while trying to give herself one.”

Cummings laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“My God, if Angelica had wanted an abortion, she could have gotten one from the finest doctors in the world,” Cummings said. He leaned forward slightly. “We’re talking about a very wealthy young woman.”

Frank wrote it down.

“Did she mention an abortion at all?”

“No,” Cummings said. “She said that she planned to have the baby, raise it herself, and at the same time—we’re talking about a young girl here—she was going off to New York to be an actress.”

“New York City?”

“That’s right, that paradise for exiles,” Cummings said. “She was going there.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“Not really. She was drifting, I could tell.”

“In what way?”

Cummings tapped his head. “In here. She was drifting inside her mind.” He shook his head. “I don’t think she had much to stand on, but I think, in whatever naive way she could, she loved that unborn child.” He was silent for a moment, his eyes gazing at his hands. “Who knows about Angelica’s death?” he asked, after a moment.

“Her sister. You.”

“Her killer,” Cummings added quietly.

“Yes,” Frank said, sure for the first time that there was one.

Cummings shook his head. “They’ve been through so much, those two. First the plane crash, now this.” His eyes drifted for a moment, then returned to Frank. “She’s all alone now, Karen.”

“Yes.”

“Angelica’s money will go to her, of course.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I doubt that Angelica had a will,” Cummings said. “She’d had to have made a will right away, and I don’t think that was a top priority for her. And, of course, if there is no will, then it’s all Karen’s now.”

“But she doesn’t really need it, does she?”

“Need?” Cummings said. “No, she doesn’t need it. But need has very little to do with whether someone wants more money. That’s one of the few things I’ve actually learned about life.” He took a long drag on the cigar. “I don’t need a Cuban cigar, but I want one.” He watched the blue smoke curl upward toward the ceiling. “Lovely house they have out on West Paces Ferry Road. Have you seen it?”

“Yes.”

“Quite elegant. Did you notice the paintings?”

“No.”

“The Devereauxs were quite avid collectors,” Cummings said. “Always going to Paris, Rome. The art in the foyer, it was all given to me by Charles, Karen’s father.”

Frank nodded.

“Karen is quite a painter, actually,” Cummings added.

Frank closed his notebook. “Well, that’s all I have for now,” he said. He stood up. “Thanks for your time.”

Cummings seemed hardly to hear him. “You should see some of Karen’s work the next time you’re over there. I even have one of hers in the foyer.”

“I will,” Frank said. “Thanks.”

“Miss Carson will see you out,” Cummings said from across the room as Frank closed the door.

Once in the foyer, it took him but an instant to recognize the painting that had been done by Karen Devereaux. It was an oil of a little girl standing by a vase of flowers. He stared closely at the swirling colors, his eyes drawn toward the face, the pale, flawless skin and deep blue eyes. It was Angelica’s face, he realized immediately, and it watched him vacantly, its lips faintly blue. Without doubt, it was Angelica, and he felt his eyes move from her face down along her body to her small white legs. He half-expected to find one bare foot and a sad, scraped ankle.

Karen had signed her name in the lower right corner, and as Frank continued to look at the painting, he was surprised that it had not caught his attention earlier. Its colors were darker, its mood more somber; the portrait was vastly different from the ones that surrounded it. Instead of cheerful crowds and gay scenes, there was only the body of a little girl, and a face that seemed larger than the body. It was the face which drew him toward it now, very beautiful as Angelica certainly had been, but with a beauty that now seemed misplaced, misshapened, and which brooded over its own features rather than radiated from them. It was as if Angelica had already known that she would never be allowed to live out her life. Somehow, Karen had painted this knowledge into her sister’s face, a knowledge, Frank realized with a sudden, dreadful chill, that had, in fact, been Karen’s, and not her little sister’s at all.