Piles of files, documents, small drawers for keeping three-by-five cards listing rentals paid. All the hallmarks of a crimped legal practice and a real estate management company barely getting by. And the photographs in their frames. Clarence with an older man, his father, maybe? Another portrait of that older man, staring fiercely at the camera. Clarence with Wren Denniston. Clarence with his secretary, Edna. And one of a woman, tall and broad. It looked like Edna in her younger years, but that’s not who it was. I had seen that photograph before, Clarence had shown a copy of it to me in my office. It was of his fiancée, Margaret.
But I recognized the woman from more than her picture.
Clarence Swift again pulled out the handkerchief and wiped his brow. He had worked up quite a sweat manufacturing his Miles Cave tale. I almost felt like clapping.
“I hope that helped, Victor,” said Clarence as he snapped his handkerchief back into his pocket.
“It did,” I said. “More than you know. Thank you.”
“Do you need something, Mr. Swift?” called the secretary again from the outer office.
“We’re fine, Edna. Fine.” He looked at me, pursed his lips as if at the trials he suffered at the hands of his secretary. “And I again apologize for misleading you initially.”
“No harm, no foul, Clarence. Have you heard from this Mr. Cave lately?”
“No, not at all.”
“You’ll let me know if you do.”
“Of course.”
“Do you think he might have killed Dr. Denniston?”
“It’s possible, maybe probable. From what Wren told me, I sensed he could be quite dangerous.”
“Fresno,” I said, nodding.
“Yes, Fresno. But one thing I know for sure is that Mrs. Denniston had nothing to do with the murder.”
“How are you so certain that she didn’t?” I said as I stood.
“Because I know her,” said Clarence. “She is a unique woman, so extraordinary in so many many ways. It would be impossible for her. Just impossible. The very thought…”
“Yes,” I said. “The very thought.”
“I hope you find him, Victor. Find him and drag him to justice.”
“That’s just what I intend to do,” I said.
27
So why didn’t I charge up to the bastard, grab him by the lapels, butt him in the chest like an irate French soccer player, and call him a liar?
Because he would have denied it, in a whining, plaintive voice that would have set my teeth on edge and my ears to bleeding. Because I couldn’t have proved it, not yet at least. Because I didn’t understand what it was all about or what it had to do with Wren Denniston’s murder or what happened to the money, and I didn’t think it advisable to spook him before I had some answers. But I now knew one thing for sure, if I hadn’t known it already.
Clarence Swift was the enemy, deadly or not, I couldn’t yet tell, but without doubt the enemy.
“So we done roaming and ready to get down to getting me my money?” said Derek as I stalked away from Swift & Son while Derek followed on my heels.
“I’m going back to the office now,” I said. “You can fill in the tax forms there.”
“I been thinking about that tax thing, and I got to tell you, bo, it’s not such a good idea. Really, why bring the tax man in on our business and get all legal on me?”
“Because I’m a lawyer, Derek. You know, if your income is low enough, you might get money back from the government. Filing your taxes could provide a financial windfall.”
“But it’s the principle of the thing, know what I mean?”
“Unfortunately, I think that I do. Now, could you do me a favor and let me think for a bit?”
“Sure can. I don’t mean to be messing with your mind.”
“Thank you.”
“But what I was-”
“Derek.”
“I only mean-”
“Derek.”
“Okay, bo. I can take a hint.”
“Good.”
“It’s just that…”
He kept talking. That was just the way he was built, but I tuned him out as I tried to figure what the hell was going on.
Why had Wren Denniston invented Miles Cave? To create a partnership for Gregor Trocek’s money. Why do that? The only answer was that he had planned to steal the money from the start. I’d bet almost anything that the date of the partnership’s creation was after Wren discovered the embezzlement in Taipei that killed the hedge fund and caused Inner Circle’s collapse. Gregor needed a vehicle to invest his illegal cash. Wren created it, all the while plotting to steal the cash and leave Gregor searching for the mysterious Miles Cave. And how much did Clarence know about it? Probably everything.
Did the missing money have anything to do with Wren Denniston’s murder? I’d bet yes – one point seven mil is a lot of motive – but then who pulled the trigger? Gregor Trocek, who put the money up in the first place? He was still searching for Miles Cave, he’d been duped, maybe he’d found out what had happened and decided to get some revenge before he found the cash. Or maybe it was someone who knew where the money had gone to. Someone like Julia? But she had an alibi. Someone like Clarence Swift? Who had created the partnership? Who was probably in on the scheme from the start? Who was lying to everyone to protect his secret?
Clarence Swift.
Right now I’d bet it was that sleazy little weasel who had tipped off the cops that I’d been out of my apartment the night of the murder when in fact I’d been in all night. Who had tipped off Gregor from a pay phone that I was the one who knew where his money was hiding. Who had created that letter from Miles Cave and then put my address and a signature that seemingly matched mine onto it. That’s why he had closed his briefcase as soon as I came in my office door, he had pilfered a letter from my desk to get his specimen. And I knew just how the son of a bitch had slipped the bogus letter into the Inner Circle file.
He was setting me up, trying to deflect the blame from himself, trying to yoke a collar around my neck while he waltzed off with the prize.
There were enough permutations to give a mathematician a headache, but the whole thing made sense, sort of. I could believe I had figured it all out, sort of. Except for the part about Clarence doing the shooting. He was a small, twisted little man, but Clarence Swift, with his bow ties and dusty old office, with his diffident manner and false humility, didn’t seem like the type that would kill over money. I had seen the Dylan Klebold in him and so I believed he could kill, but money didn’t seem to power his engine. Then what did?
I found the answer sitting in plain sight on top of my desk.
Derek was up front, waiting as Ellie prepared the tax forms and receipt for him to sign. I was sitting behind my desk, still puzzling over it all, when I idly started paging through a file. It was the file I had gotten from Inner Circle, the file that contained all the letters of complaint. It was a sad file, full of sad letters from those who had suffered great losses, the kind of file that lawyers find great joy in, because it contains the possibility of great profit. And I was trying to find the joy in there when Derek showed up at my office door.
“I filled out them forms,” he said. “Signed them, too.”
I closed the file and looked up at him.
“I still don’t like the idea,” he said. “It doesn’t seem right somehow.”
“Hand them over.”
He handed them over, I gave them a quick scan. It was all official, and signed, just like he said. I took the forms and put them into my desk drawer. Then I pulled out my wallet and counted one hundred and ninety dollars. I held the bills out to him, he took hold, but I didn’t let go.
“You did a good job, Derek,” I said. “You earned this.”
“Fine, bo.”
“You can be proud of the work you did.”
“Thanks.”
Pause.
“You going to let it loose so I can be on my way,” he said, “or am I going to have to cut off your hand?”