Tick Tock

Chapter 95

LAWRENCE BERGER'S LAWYER, Allen Duques, lived in New Canaan, Connecticut. His house was a nine-thousand-square-foot Tudor mansion on a fifteen-acre estate set back off an unpaved road filled with similar ridiculously ostentatious castles.

Apt knew this because he had been there twice, running errands for Lawrence. Apt knew Duques was the executor of Lawrence's estate, which was why he was paying him a visit.

Apt used an electrical meter to check the rear chain-link fence for voltage, then bolt-cut a hole in it, all the time listening for dogs.

Through the window of the massive five-car garage was, of all things, a blue Mercedes convertible. It was an S65, even nicer than Lawrence's, with something like 600 horsepower.

Apt smiled at his luck as he checked the load in the suppressed Colt M1911 pistol. Instead of the rental car, which he'd left on the service road, he'd drive the German luxury rocket out of here when he was done.

He walked quickly around the perimeter of the imposing house until he spotted where the underground power and phone lines went in behind some azaleas. Sparks shot from the bolt cutter's blade as he snipped them both at the same time.

He started to pick the rinky-dink lock on the rear kitchen door, then decided instead to tap in its window with the handle of the bolt cutter. He was inside, approaching the dining room, when he saw it. A paper printout banner stretched chest high across the threshold:

MR. APT, I KNOW HOW UPSET YOU ARE. I AM NOT HOME. THERE IS A CELL PHONE ON THE DINING ROOM TABLE. PLEASE HIT THE REDIAL SO WE MAY SPEAK. ALLEN.

A trick? Apt thought, listening very carefully. Duques was smart, almost as smart as Lawrence.

After a minute, Apt broke through the banner and picked up the Motorola in the center of the huge antique Spanish farmhouse table.

"Carl, I'm so glad you called," Duques said with audible relief.

"Where's my money, Allen?" Apt said.

"I froze the account. I didn't know any other way to contact you. There have been some developments."

"You have my complete, undivided attention, Allen."

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Berger is dead."

Carl closed his eyes as he took a long deep breath. Knowing this was coming didn't make it hurt any less.

He opened his eyes and stared at the painting over the sideboard. It looked French Impressionist, but he could tell right away that it was actually a cheap French Impressionist knockoff bought in Vietnam.

Carl swallowed, his eyes watering.

Lawrence had taught him that.

Lawrence had given him everything.