Silence

4

PAUL AND SYLVIE TURNER took the crowded elevator to the eighth floor of the tall gray-white office building on Wilshire Boulevard. The building housed busy lawyers, accountants, and medical specialists, so the Turners had to stand in the back of the elevator and sidestep out when they reached their floor, and then pass several people in the carpeted hallway. They entered the door marked DOLAN, NYQUIST, AND BERNE, ATTORNEYS.

The waiting room was empty. Behind the glass in the reception window was a woman in a stylish gray skirt and jacket. She displayed her professional smile to the Turners when they entered. “Mr. and Mrs. Turner. Good afternoon.” Then she glanced at the appointment sheet on her desk and said, “Come in.” She pressed a switch and there was an audible click as a bolt in the big wooden door disengaged.

Paul opened the door and held it for Sylvie, then let it click shut again behind him. The woman said to Sylvie, “He’s in Four.” They went farther into the suite past doors with numbers on them until they came to Four, a conference room with natural-wood chair rails, credible-looking antique portraits on the walls, a long table with twelve padded chairs around it. Michael Densmore sat in one of them.

Densmore was vain about his clothing. He was wearing the pants from a charcoal suit, but the coat was draped on the back of the chair beside him so the shoulders were filled out and the arms hung naturally, like a headless scarecrow. His shirt was pure white with a starched collar and a fine silk tie with a subdued pattern of very small blue squares. He stood when Sylvie walked in. He had a slight belly that caused him to make nervous, ineffectual attempts to tuck his shirt in to cover it. His smile was youthful, but showed wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and the forehead. He closed the door after them and flipped a lock lever below the brass knob. “Sylvie, you look lovely.” He grasped her hand, and then shook Paul’s. “Good to see you both.” He sat down, so his belly would be hidden by the table. “Everything’s okay?”

“Sure,” said Sylvie.

“Very smooth,” Paul agreed. “I’m sure you saw it in the paper.”

“Of course. I was very interested to know.”

“Nice little .32s. Pop-pop-pop,” Sylvie said.

Densmore held his hand up. “No details, please. Nothing specific. I don’t want any information. I represent the widow, and I’ll be talking to the police. I don’t want to have something incidental slip out in conversation, and then find out I’ve incriminated myself.”

“Sorry,” said Sylvie. “Forget I said anything. He died of infidelity. Did Mrs. Pollard happen to leave anything for us?”

“Yes, I have it right here.” Densmore lifted a briefcase from under the table, opened it, and displayed a row of stacked bills.

“The money is clean, right?” Paul asked.

“This isn’t her cash. I deposited her checks and took the cash from several of my own accounts as I always do, so there’s no chance bills are marked or anything like that.” He smiled. “I’ll get my cut by overcharging for settling the estate.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Sylvie said.

“What about her? Is she a problem?” Paul said.

“No.”

“What did you tell her?”

“The usual warnings. She knows that if she and I go to jail, her children will still be out there somewhere, and so will you. She doesn’t know who you are.”

“Very good. It’s always a pleasure to do business with you.” Paul rose, took the briefcase, and held out his hand for Densmore to shake.

Densmore remained seated. “Don’t go yet.” He pushed a folder across the table and opened it so they could see two packets of paper that had been produced on a computer printer. “Can you sign these papers for me, please? They’re just duplicates of the wills we made out two years ago, with a new date. I need to have something to put in the file so the office staff won’t wonder why you came in. But you know, while you’re here, there is one other thing I’d like to discuss with you both, if you’ve got a minute. Do you?”

Sylvie shrugged, opened the folder, and signed in one of the designated spaces. Paul sat down in his seat again, and took his turn. He held the briefcase on his lap.

“I have something else that’s coming up, and I wondered if you would like to be part of it.” He opened the folder that was at his elbow on the conference table and took out a photograph. “It’s this woman.”

Sylvie snagged the photograph and slid it to the space between her and Paul. “She’s pretty. Isn’t she, Paul?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. She’s pretty.”

“Yes, but nothing special. Not like you, for instance.”

Densmore watched the couple in silence. Sylvie Turner was ten years older than the woman in the picture. Whenever Densmore saw Sylvie, he thought she was attractive. But compared to this woman, Sylvie’s features seemed coarse and her skin flawed. Sylvie’s face was thin, her nose and mouth projected forward subtly, and her eyes had a cruel glint that made him uncomfortable.

“Who is she?” Sylvie asked.

“Her name is Wendy Harper. She was the part owner of a restaurant called Banque. Do you know it?”

“Banque? Sure,” Paul said. “We’ve been there a couple of times. A big, beautiful room—I guess it was actually a bank lobby—good food, good service. Give me a minute, and I’ll think of the name of the chef. Eric something. Fuller?”

“Right. Fuller.”

“Darn,” Sylvie said. “I remembered, too, but you beat me to it.” She glared at her husband. “Paul is always showing me up in the domestic stuff. He makes a better woman than I do, don’t you think?”

The skin of Paul’s face lost its flexibility and his black eyes were like dots. Densmore wondered what she thought she was doing. Densmore would never have said anything that might offend Paul Turner. He tried to push them past the awkward moment. “They started the restaurant together about ten years ago. He was the chef, and she was the business head. The place was a success right away.”

“And?” Sylvie said.

“They had a romantic relationship, I’m told. At some point that ended. Love is temporary, but a successful business is forever. They broke up, but kept the partnership and worked in the business together. After about four or five years, she disappeared.”

“How very odd,” Sylvie said. “Imagine his surprise.”

“That was how the police looked at it six years ago. They had the crudest kind of partnership. The agreement was written out by the two of them in their own handwriting and signed in front of a notary. They owned everything in common, and if one died, the other got all of it. They had two identical life-insurance policies, each with the other partner as beneficiary. It would have made sense to insure him for more because he was the chef, but they didn’t, probably because insuring young women is cheap. Anyway, she disappeared, he collected, and the restaurant went to him. The police found nothing.”

“Thank God I’ve ordered only the seafood at Banque,” said Sylvie.

Densmore was careful enough to laugh with them. After a moment, he said, “The real situation is more complicated than that. A client of mine wanted her dead. He made an attempt on her six years ago. He failed, but she hasn’t been seen since. He still wants her dead.”

“He’s trying to hire someone to do it now? After she’s been gone for six years?” Paul asked.

“He’s asked me to make an arrangement. The money would be very significant. I’ve spent some time working on it, and I’ve decided that the best hope I have of succeeding is you.”

“Us?” Sylvie said.

“Yes,” he said. “There’s a way to find her, but it seems to have a potential for mishandling, and it could be dangerous. You’re the only ones in whom I would feel any confidence. Let me show you what I’ve got to work with.” He got up, walked out of the room for a moment, then returned carrying a nylon bag about a yard long, with two handles. He set it on the table.

“What’s that?” asked Sylvie. “Your bag of tricks?”

Densmore looked at her and nodded. “I guess you could call it that.” He opened the bag and showed them a baseball bat and a torn piece of white cloth caked with dried blood.

“Are we supposed to do something with that?” Paul asked.

“You bury it. Then we wait a few months and make it turn up again.”