“I hate to say this… ” he began.
“It’s blood,” Su Ling muttered.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Where is it coming from?”
“Let’s find out.”
It took Cantrell a few strong heaves to move the heavy Maytag from its resting place. The floor beneath the appliance was likewise covered in a thin pool of the red fluid, but there was nothing else. He grunted as he tilted the dryer to the side and examined its underbelly. It was clean and dry.
He let the dryer back down and looked at Su Ling.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There must be a logical reason for this… just don’t ask me what it is.”
“I’m scared, Alex,” she said quietly. “That’s blood! What in the hell is it doing on my floor? What if Anna sees this?”
“Do you have a mop and bucket? Go sit down, I’ll clean it up. We’ll figure it out later.”
She found the necessary tools and gave them to him. It didn’t take him long to mop up the hideous mess, rinsing both mop and hands in the nearby sink.
Even before he went back into the living room, Cantrell determined not to tell her something that made his stomach lurch:
The thick liquid—the blood—was warm.
7
The Exeter basked in the warmth of a June afternoon; golden light slanting off its improbable angles, gables and glass. The grass in its small, well-maintained front lawn had taken root, growing lush and green; the ornamental trees fully in leaf, the roses in bloom.
No longer did the place look so glaringly new; instead assuming a lived-in appearance. It almost looked as if it belonged.
It was mid-afternoon on a quiet day. Most of the tenants were gone, working or enjoying the outdoors. The parking lot was practically empty, except for one anomaly that marred the peaceful landscape: a lone police cruiser.
Lieutenant Joe Maudlin spoke to Cantrell as they made their way to the third floor.
“So, we’re talking a couple weeks?” Maudlin asked Cantrell.
“The last time I saw him was at the Tenants Association meeting, just over two weeks ago. Not a trace since then.”
“Did he have anything special to say at the meeting?”
“No. He was critical, which is par for the course for him. He tends to be gruff.”
“You mean you don’t like him?”
Cantrell paused, sensing a trap.
“I didn’t say that.”
“I understand he’s one of the investors in the building.”
Cantrell was impressed by the detective’s apparent homework.
“Yes he is, but he did tell me something after the tenants’ meeting: he said it was his intent to liquidate his investment in the building. He asked me to look into the technicalities.”
Maudlin raised an eyebrow. “Really? What do you make of that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Was he a big shareholder?”
“More than some, less than others.”
“I see. So you’ve gone in, taken a look?”
“Yes, and let me warn you, it’s unbelievable.”
Maudlin seemed uninterested in Cantrell’s warning. As they ascended the staircase to the third floor, Maudlin took in the decor, the art; the impressive tree that towered through the building’s central atrium.
“Nice place.”
They stopped before door 308.
“Why did you go into Brown’s apartment?”
“I was scared that he might be sick, or dead. There was no answer on the phone, no answer to my knocks.”
“And you’re absolutely sure he’s not in there somewhere?”
“I checked every closet, under the bed, under the sofa. Nothing.”
“Believe me, if there was a body in there, you would have known it.”
Maudlin paused, regarding the closed door.
“And he left no word with you, no notice that he was taking a trip or something?”
“Nothing.”
Maudlin exhaled. “Okay, let’s take a look.”
Stu Brown was incensed. He was waiting on hold, and he hated nothing more than waiting on the fucking telephone. Who understood better than him that time was money?
The voice of his money manager finally came back on the line.
“So you’re serious about this, Stu? You really want to sell your shares in the Exeter?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I talked to Cantrell about it yesterday. He’s looking into it for me.”
The man’s voice betrayed a trace of frustration.
“Why, for Christ’s sake? You won’t get a dime of appreciation, and the Exeter is a winner, Stu. You know it and I know it. Hold onto it for five years, then dump it for a windfall.”
“Fuck the windfall, Steve, and fuck you! I’m selling, and that’s that. Now, what I want to know from you is have you done everything else I’ve ordered?”
The broker paused.
“Christ, no Stu! It’ll take me a week at least to get rid of everything. Come on, buddy. Don’t you want to meet and talk about this over lunch or something? We’re talking a lot of assets here. Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Get this straight, Steve. You’re the broker and I’m the client. What part of that is hard to understand?”
“But I have a fiduciary responsibility, Stu, and I have to… ”
“… Listen to your fucking client! You’re right you have a fiduciary responsibility, you son of a bitch—to me! I’m ordering you for the last time: liquidate all of it, Steve—everything. I’m talking about the stocks, the bonds, the treasury certificates, the property, the rentals. Every fucking dime of it, liquidated and turned over to me in currency. That means cash, Steve, hard cold cash, in case you’ve forgotten what that is. Nothing else will do. And I want it done now.”
Brown paused, catching his breath. When he got angry like this, his chest hurt and his breath grew short.
“Now if you can’t get this done,” he resumed in a dangerously calm tone, “I’ll fucking find somebody who can. Have I made myself clear?”
The manager sighed. He was accustomed to Brown’s anger and impatience, but he’d never heard anything like this. He’d already done his best to delay Brown’s drastic decision, but sensed that it was fruitless.
“Clear as a bell, Stu,” he said in a tone of surrender. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Brown slammed the receiver down, but not without a twinge of pleasure. He enjoyed the sound of fear, of desperation, in Steve’s voice.
Brown had always believed that when you turned up the heat, the rats would come out, and good old Steve had turned out to be just another rat. In the end, they were all the same: thieves who couldn’t keep their hands out of his till. He’d suspected it for years and years, just like he had his waitresses and bartenders; his hostesses, partners and wives. All they ever wanted was to fuck him, and he figured that he’d been sufficiently fucked by now.
Stu Brown had put his foot down for good. There would be no more banks, no more professionals posing as friends, no more advisors, counselors or consultants. He’d worked way too hard for his money to allow those parasites—those rats—to suck it all away.
The only man left to trust was himself.
He stood in the kitchen, facing the expensive wood cabinets, copper pots and pans hanging unused from their racks. The cabinets were all open. Each shelf was lined with neat rows of cans. The counter was likewise covered with them. The refrigerator was similarly stocked.
But they were not cans of food. They were coffee and soup cans, long emptied of their original contents, and now used for a new purpose. Each can had been messily stuffed with rolls and rolls of cash; everything from ones to hundreds. There were literally thousands of bills, and this was only the beginning. More than three quarters of his assets had yet to be liquidated.