Page was convinced his brother’s death wasn’t a suicide or an accident,”
said Jackson.
“He thought he was murdered?”
Jackson nodded.
“Why?”
“I’ve requested a copy of the file from NYPD. There might be some
answers in there, although I spoke briefly with the detective who worked
the case and he says all the evidence points to either suicide or an
accident. The guy was drunk.”
“If he did kill himself, anybody know why?”
Jackson sat back. “Steven Page was a diabetic, like I said, so his
health wasn’t the greatest in the world. According to Page’s daughter,
her uncle could never get his insulin regulated. Although he was only
twenty-eight when he died, his internal organs were probably much
older.” Jackson stopped talking and looked down at his notes for a
moment. “On top of that, Steven Page had very recently tested positive
for HIV.”
“Shit. That explains the drinking hinge,” said Sawyer.
“Probably.”
“And maybe the suicide.”
“That’s what NYPD thinks.”
“How’d he contract it?”
Jackson shook his head. “No one knows. Officially, at least. I mean,
the coroner’s report wouldn’t have been able to determine the origin. I
asked the ex-wife. She wasn’t any help. The daughter, however, tells
me her uncle was gay. Not openly, but she was pretty sure about it and
she thinks this is how he contracted HIV.”
Sawyer rubbed his head and blew out a mouthful of air. “Is there some
connection between the possible murder of a gay man in New York five
years ago, Jason Archer ripping off his employer and a plane going down
in Virginia?”
Jackson pulled at his lip. “Maybe, for some reason we don’t know, Page
knew that Archer didn’t get on that plane.”
Sawyer felt guilt for a moment. From his conversation with Sid-they–a
conversation he hadn’t shared with his partner–Sawyer knew that Page
had been aware that Jason hadn’t been on the plane.
“So Jason Archer disappears,” he said, “and Page looks to pick up the
trail through the wife.”
“Makes sense as far as it goes. Hey, maybe it was Triton who hired Page
to check on leaks, and he sniffed out Archer.”
Sawyer shook his head. “Between their in-house staff and Frank Hardy’s
company, they have more than enough bodies to do the job.”
A woman entered the room carrying a file. “Ray, this just came in over
the fax from NYPD.”
Jackson accepted the file. “Thanks, Jennie.” After she had gone,
Jackson scrutinized the file while Sawyer made a couple of calls.
“Steven Page?” Sawyer finally asked, pointing at the file.
“Yep. Real interesting stuff.”
Sawyer poured a cup of coffee and sat down next to his partner.
“Steven Page was employed by Fidelity Mutual in Manhattan,” said
Jackson. “It’s one of the biggest investment houses in the country.
He lived in a nice apartment building; place was filled with antiques,
original oil paintings, closet full of Brooks Brothers; Jag in the
garage down the street. He also had an extensive investment portfolio:
stocks, bonds, mutual funds, money markets. Well over a million
dollars’ worth.”
“Pretty good for a twenty-eight-year-old. But I guess those investment
bankers make killings. You hear all the time about these punks making
truckloads of money for doing who the hell knows what. Probably
screwing the likes of you and me.”
“Yeah, but Steven Page wasn’t an investment banker. He was a financial
analyst, a market watcher. Strictly salaried position; not big bucks
either, according to this report.”
Sawyer’s brow furrowed. “So where did the investment portfolio come
from? Embezzlement from Fidelity?”
Jackson shook his head. “NYPD checked that angle. There were no funds
missing from Fidelity.”
“So what did NYPD conclude?”
“I don’t think NYPD ever concluded anything. Page was found alone in
his apartment, door and windows locked from the inside.
And once the medical examiner’s report came back as a probable suicide
via insulin overdose, they pretty much lost interest. In case you
didn’t know, they’ve got a bit of a backlog on homicides in the Big
Apple, Lee.”
“Thanks for enlightening me, Ray, on New York City’s corpse problem. So
who inherited?”
Jackson sifted through the report. “Steven Page didn’t leave a will.
His parents were dead. He had no kids. His brother, Edward Page, as