Liz glanced at the list. “What can you tell me about these people?”
Daphne settled into the cushioned rattan settee and rearranged her pastel caftan. “Keegan Matthias’s father is an international banker. He was in the middle of the South African controversy.”
“I remember,” Liz said.
“Keegan started working for his father just after he graduated this spring, but he’s more interested in body building than banking. He wants to open his own gym, I hear.” Daphne noted the glance that Nick and Liz exchanged and continued. “Treynor Russett is a spoiled brat in every sense of the phrase. He’s totaled four cars in the three years he’s had his driver’s license. At the last tennis tournament he broke three very expensive rackets during separate temper tantrums. And if he’s not an alcoholic yet, he’s well on his way to being one.”
“What does his father do?” Nick asked.
“Stockbroker.”
“What about Carey Lewis?” Liz asked.
A tiny frown unsmoothed Daphne’s brow. “Are these boys involved in the thefts, too?”
“What about Carey, Mother?”
“A couple of years older than Blair. The family money is very old. As far as I know, Carey has never worked a day in his life. He’s very bright and has an extraordinary gift for languages. Very charming.”
“And?”
Daphne fingered a leaf of the red geranium at her elbow. “Rumor has it he likes to rough up girls. He was engaged to Ashleigh Youngston, and then suddenly he wasn’t, and Ashleigh transferred to the University of Colorado. There was even talk that he nearly beat a prostitute to death.”
“Just another group of well-rounded, well-adjusted young Americans trying to make the world a better place.” The smile on Nick’s face had a bitter twist to it.
Daphne directed her gaze at him. “Not all children of wealth are maladjusted brats. I think my children turned out okay.” Her laugh was humorless. “Well, two out of three isn’t bad, I guess.”
“Anyone else on this list we should be interested in?” Liz’s words were rushed.
“Sydney Wise. She’s Blair’s girlfriend. According to Margaret, she’s a good influence on him.”
“Unfortunately, she’s outnumbered,” Liz said.
“Blair’s in over his head, isn’t he?” Daphne, her blue eyes concerned, looked first at her daughter, then at Nick.
“Five robberies in four months. Expensive artwork.” Nick leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “That alone is enough to get him serious prison time. I can understand Fitzpatrick’s actions, but why didn’t anyone else report the thefts?”
“Everyone who was robbed is passionate about art.”
“And their favorite pieces were stolen,” Liz offered.
Daphne nodded. “They were told that if they contacted the police or didn’t follow instructions, their treasures would be returned in pieces.”
“You and Mrs. Fitzpatrick know a lot about what’s been going on,” Nick said.
“It’s a very small, very insular community, Nick.”
“Did you know two pieces of art were stolen each time,” Liz asked, “and the owners were forced to choose which one they wanted back?”
Daphne’s eyes widened. “What on earth for?”
“Power,” Nick said, the word short and decisive.
“That’s—” Daphne began.
“Twisted,” Liz finished.
“I was going to say that’s not like Blair.”
“He’s not in this alone, Mother.”
Daphne regarded her daughter intently. “These are very powerful people, Lisbon. Some would even call them ruthless.”
“You know how much that impresses me, Mother.”
“They’ll stop at nothing to protect their children.”
“And in the process they’re destroying them.” Liz’s jaw was tight. “I’d like to try to salvage one if I can.”
“Can you keep the police out of this?”
“Not entirely,” Nick said.
“Hanley would disown Blair if he went to jail.”
“That’s the least of Blair’s problems,” Liz said.
Randy’s Beer and Billiards was a good place to develop eye-strain and lung cancer. Cigarette and cigar smoke saturated the air and dimmed the low wattage bulbs. Four pool tables were little oases of brighter light. Beer and sweat competed with the smoke for King of the Odors honors.
The bartender, Benny, who looked like a Hell’s Angel whose Harley had been retired, handed the snapshot back to Liz and resumed drying beer steins. “He and his buddies have been comin’ in here at least once a week for four or five months.” His voice was an imposing grumble.
“Hear any names?” Liz asked.
He pointed to the photo in her hand. “That one they call Fitz. There’s another they call Louie. Big guy named Keg. Little banty rooster called Rusty. Rich kids out slummin’.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “For the most part, they don’t cause trouble, and their money spends as good as anybody else’s.”
“How’d you know they were rich kids?” Nick leaned against his right forearm atop the bar.
The bartender looked at Liz and then back at Nick. A grin appeared between his sandy mustache and beard. “Same way I know she’s out of your league.”
After leaving her mother’s, Liz had had Nick run her by her apartment so she could change into a plain gray T-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans with a rip across the left knee, courtesy of an off-balance scramble over a fence during a case.
Nick cocked an eyebrow in her direction and then looked back at the bartender. “I think I’m offended, Benny.”
The bartender laughed. A sharp crack marked the start of a new game of pool, and the jukebox in the far corner cranked out Willie Nelson’s graveled tones.
“What kind of trouble did they cause?” Liz asked.
Benny winked at Nick. “She doesn’t miss much, does she?”
“Not much.”
Benny put aside the towel and glass, spread his arms, and pressed his palms against the top of the bar. “It was the one they call Louie. If that rich boy’s parents have been sendin’ him to a shrink, they need to get a refund.”
“What do you mean?” Nick asked.
“The boy’s got a twist in his personality.”
A voice from the farthest pool table cut across the room. “Hey, Benny! We need another round over here!”
“Somebody broke your legs since you walked in?” Benny bellowed back. “Come get ’em yourself.” He whisked four long-necked bottles out of an under-the-counter refrigerator, deftly popped off the tops, and left them huddled atop the bar.
“How twisted?” Liz asked.
Benny squinted. “I’ve seen plenty of hard cases in my time, but ain’t nothin’ scarier than one who’s all soft and smiling on the outside.”
“This kid’s scary?” Nick asked.
“If I was a religious man, I’d say he was the direct offspring of Lucifer himself.”
“What happened?” Liz asked.
“Don’t get me wrong. Most of the fellas come in here have a better than passing acquaintance with the inside of a jail or two. And fights are a fairly regular thing. But they don’t last longer than it takes someone to blow off a little steam.
“The one called Louie had a hooker in here with ’em one night. He’d been treatin’ her pretty rough, but then he hauls off and busts her lip. Lolita’s just a little slip of a thing, and one of the guys called him on it. Louie got up and walked over to him and proceeded to beat the crap out of him. The one called Fitz pulled him off. Thing is, Louie was smiling the whole time, like he enjoyed it. And when he went back to the table, he hit Lolita again just for the hell of it. That’s when I told them they could clear out.”
“How did Louie take that?” Nick wanted to know.
“He just smiled that cold smile of his. yanked little Lolita up by the arm, and him and his buddies left. They were back in here the next week. Bought two rounds for the house.”