He had his suspicions about what was going on, but he wanted to check it out himself before he did anything else.”
“Someone told me he was worried Crystal would jump ship if the uproar became public.”
Trigg tossed his sponge in a bucket. “Maybe that’s what Fiona was counting on,” he said.
I walked into the office at 11:25 to find Jeniffer, bending over a file drawer, in a skirt so short the two crescent-shaped bulges of her hiney were hanging out the back. Her legs were long and bare, tanned from all the days she took off to go to the beach with her pals. I said, “Jeniffer, you’re really going to have to wear longer skirts. Don’t you remember ‘I see London, I see France, I see someone’s underpants’?”
She jerked upright and tugged self-consciously at the hem of her skirt. At least she had the good grace to look embarrassed. She clopped back to her desk in her wooden-soled clogs. She sat down, exposing so much bare thigh I felt compelled to avert my eyes.
“Any messages?” I asked.
“Just one. Mrs. Purcell said she’s back and she’s expecting you at two o’clock.”
“When? Today or tomorrow?”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can figure it out. Anything else?”
“This came,” she said, and handed me an Express Mail envelope. I opened the flap. Inside was the contract Fiona’d signed and returned. Shit. I already hated feeling bound to her.
“Also, someone’s here to see you. I showed her into your office and took her a cup of coffee.”
That got my attention. “You left her in my office by herself?”
“I have work to do. I couldn’t stay.”
“How do you know she’s not back there going through my desk?” I said, knowing that’s what I’d be doing if I were in her place.
“I don’t think she’d do that. She seems nice.”
I could feel my heat gauge rising into the red zone. “I seem nice, too. That doesn’t count for much. How long’s she been there?” To be fair, I was probably displacing my feelings about Fiona onto her, but I was pissed, anyway.
Jeniffer made a face to show she was thinking real hard. “Not long. Twenty minutes. Maybe a little more.”
“Is she at least someone I know?”
“I think so,” she said, faintly. “Her name’s Mariah something. I just figured she’d be more comfortable back there than if she waited for you out here.”
“Jeniffer, in that length of time, she could have ripped me off for everything I own.”
“You said that. I’m sorry.”
“Forget about ‘sorry.’ Don’t ever do it again.” I headed down the inner corridor. I looked back at her. “And get some pantyhose,” I snapped. As I passed Ida Ruth’s desk, she was studiously avoiding my gaze, no doubt thrilled I was being subjected to a sample of Jeniffer’s continuing ineptitude.
My office door was closed. I barged in to find a woman sitting in the guest chair. She’d placed her empty coffee mug on the edge of the desk in front of her. Scanning the surface, I could’ve sworn my files were ever so slightly disarranged. I looked at her quizzically and she returned my gaze with eyes as blank and blue as a Siamese cat’s.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-six, but her hair was a startling silver-gray, as polished as pewter. She wore very little makeup, but her skin tones looked warm against the frosty hair, which was combed back and anchored behind her ears. She had a finely sculpted jaw, a strong nose and chin, lightly feathered brows. The skirt of her gray wool business suit was cut short and sheer black hose emphasized her shapely knees, one of which carried the vestiges of an old scar. There was a black briefcase resting near the left side of her chair. She looked like an expensive lawyer with a high-powered firm. Maybe I was being sued.
Warily, I moved around my desk and sat down. She shed her jacket with ease and arranged it across the back of the chair to avoid wrinkling it. From the shape of her shoulders and upper arms, I knew she worked out a lot harder than I did.
“I’m Mariah Talbot,” she said. The black silk tank top rustled faintly as she reached across the desk to shake hands. She had long oval nails painted a neutral shade. The effect was sophisticated; nothing gaudy about this one. The most riveting feature was a gnarly white scar, probably a burn, on the outer aspect of her right forearm.
“Do we have an appointment?” I asked, unable to keep the testiness out of my voice.
“We don’t, but I’m here on a matter I think will interest you,” she said, unruffled. Whatever my disposition, it wasn’t going to bother her. The image she projected was one of composure, competence, efficiency, and determination. Her smile, when it appeared, scarcely softened her face.
“What’s the deal?”
She leaned forward, placing her business card on the desk in front of me. The face of it read, MARIAH TALBOT, SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS UNIT, GUARDIAN CASUALTY INSURANCE, with an address and phone number I scarcely stopped to read. The logo was a four-leaf clover with Home, Auto, Life, and Health written in each of the four loops. “We need to have a chat about your landlord.”
“Henry?”
“Richard Hevener.”
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. “What about him?”
“You may not be aware of this, but Richard and Tommy are fraternal twins.”
“Really?” I said, thinking, Who gives a shit?
“Here’s something else you may not be aware of. Richard and Tommy murdered their parents back in Texas in 1983.”
I could feel my lips parting slightly, as though in preparation for the punch line to a joke.
The combination of the blue eyes and the silver hair was arresting, and I could hardly keep from staring. She went on, her manner completely matter-of-fact: “They hired someone to break into the house. As nearly as we can tell, the plan was for the burglar to drill the safe and walk off with a substantial amount of cash, plus jewelry valued at close to a million dollars. The boys’ mother, Brenda, was the older of two girls who came from an incredibly wealthy Texas family named Atcheson. Brenda inherited a stunning jewelry collection that she left, by will, to her only sister, Karen. These are pieces that have been passed down through the family for years.”
She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a fat brown accordion file. She removed a manila folder and passed it over to me. “These are the newspaper clippings. Plus, one copy each of the two wills.”
I opened the file and glanced at the first few clippings, dated January 15, 22, and 29 of 1983. In all three articles, Richard and Tommy were pictured, looking solemn and withdrawn, flanked by their attorney in a three-piece business suit. Headlines indicated the two were being questioned in the ongoing investigation of the homicides of Jared and Brenda Hevener. Additional articles covered the investigation over the balance of the year. I didn’t stop to read the wills.
Mariah Talbot went on. “You’ll notice their aunt Karen’s name cropping up in some of the articles. The burglar was a punk named Casey Stonehart, who’d already been jailed six times for a variety of crimes ranging from petty theft to arson, a minor specialty of his. We believe he opened the safe using the combination they’d given him. Then he dismantled the smoke detectors and set a blaze meant to cover up the crime. Apparently-and this is only a guess-the deal was he’d take the bulk of the jewelry, which he was in a position to fence. The boys would take the cash and maybe a few choice pieces, then submit a claim to the insurance company for the house, its contents, the jewelry, and anything else they could get away with. Oh yes, the cars. Two Mercedes-Benz were destroyed in the blaze. Mr. and Mrs. Hevener were found bound and gagged in the master bedroom closet. They died of smoke inhalation, which is not as bad as being burned alive- lucky them. Neither boy was anywhere in the area. In fact, both by some miracle were out of town and had iron-clad alibis,” she said. “Stonehart, the kid who did the dirty work, disappeared soon afterward; probably dead and buried somewhere, though we have no proof. He’s been missing ever since so it’s a safe bet they got rid of him. An accomplice is always the weak link in these things.”
“Couldn’t he be in hiding?”
“If he were, he’d have been in touch with his family. They’re all deadbeats and bums, but loyal to a fault. They wouldn’t care what he’d done.”
“How do you know their loyalty doesn’t include keeping mum about where he is?”
“The sheriffs department put a mail check in place and there’s a trace on the phone. Believe me, the silence has been absolute. This is a kid with big dependency issues. If he were alive, he couldn’t tolerate the separation.”