"Yes! Can you believe it?"
Jack began reading. " 'Clay(ton) lies still, but blood's a rover.' "
"That's from Alfred Housman," she said. When he shot her a look, she added, "I looked it up."
"I only know John Houseman."
"The original reads 'Clay lies still.' He added the 't-o-n."
"So what's this mean? That your bro—half brother is a 'rover?' He's a wanderer? Has a wandering eye? What?"
"I couldn't say." It had baffled her too.
"Wait," Jack said. "Here's another: 'Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?'"
"That's from someone named Robert Bridges. I looked up the poems to see if anything else in them helped, but found nothing."
"It's crazy."
"That's exactly what Thomas's lawyers are saying. They're using all this weirdness as evidence that he wasn't competent when he changed the will."
"And when did he do that?"
"According to the date there, shortly before he died."
"Well, whatever his state of mind, he was sure as hell determined to see you got that house."
"I'm not so sure," she said. "It seems to me he wanted to keep it away from Thomas more than anything else."
"Can you think of anything important enough about that house that your half brother would kill for? What could your father have left behind that he wants so bad?"
"I don't know. I don't know Thomas. I can't explain him. I don't even want to try."
"All right, then," Jack said. "Your father. He seems to be at the root of all this. Who was Ronald Clayton? What did he do?"
Alicia closed her eyes and swallowed. He wanted her to talk about that man… who he was… what he did…
If you only knew …
Jack was beginning to wonder if something was wrong with Alicia—sitting so pale and silent on the other side of the desk—but then her eyes popped open and she began to talk.
"People called him brilliant," she said in a flat tone as she stared past Jack's shoulder, almost as if she were reading from a TelePrompter somewhere behind him. "His field was physics, and at various times in his life he was attached to the departments at Princeton, Columbia, and NYU, doing basic research. Somewhere in there he worked at Bell Labs and IBM. He followed the money. I suppose he did have a brilliant mind, but he was utterly ruthless: He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it and to hell with anybody else. His son is no different."
Jack realized he'd never heard Alicia refer to Ronald Clayton as her father. "He" or "him" or "that man," but never "my father."
Had she been abused by him? Her brother? Both of them?
"Doesn't sound like you had a great relationship with him."
Her voice got colder and even flatter.
"Ronald Clayton was scum, a lower lifeform without conscience or scruples. I don't care that he left me his house. I don't want it. I don't care what he left behind in his house. I don't want anything that man touched. I'd be happiest if all traces of him were wiped from this earth. That was why I wanted you to burn the house. That's why I… I…"
She seemed to have run out of words.
Jack too was speechless. Alicia's feelings for her father went beyond anger, beyond rage. She loathed the man. And not simply because of his character faults.
What in God's name happened in that house? Was it physical? Sexual?
Jack watched her closely, hoping she wasn't about to cry. He never knew what to do with a crying woman—or man, for that matter. Gia he could take in his arms and hug. But Alicia? Uh-uh. She was flying a Gadsden flag at full mast.
But she didn't cry. Didn't even come close. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then looked at him.
"Sorry."
"It's okay," Jack said, hiding his relief. "What's your next step? And please tell me it doesn't include the word 'fire.'"
The barest hint of a smile curved her lips. "Okay. No fire." She sighed. "Maybe I should think about giving in. I mean, it would sure as hell simplify my life if I simply sold the damn place to Thomas and his backers. Being a multimillionaire would solve a lot of problems."
Jack was surprised by a sudden pang of disappointment. Who killed the PI, the lawyer, and Benny the Torch? And why? What in that house was valuable enough to kill for?
If Alicia gave in, all those questions would remain unanswered.
"And then again," she said after a pause, her eyes going steely. "Maybe I shouldn't. I don't like to be bullied. Especially by Thomas."
Yes! Jack resisted the impulse to pump his fist. Instead he rose to his feet.
"It's your decision," he said. "And either way, there's not much I can do for you. But I'll keep thinking on it. Maybe I can come up with someone who can help."
"Why?" she said. "Don't get me wrong. I'd welcome any help you care to offer. But I got the impression you're strictly fee for service. Why are you staying involved?"
Jack shrugged. "Curiosity."
"Considering what happened to the others who've gotten involved, curiosity could be dangerous."
"I know," he said. "You're a dangerous lady to be around."
She frowned, and suddenly he regretted the remark. She was feeling bad enough. But it was true: He'd have to watch his back if he linked up with Alicia. Have to find out who was behind all the rough stuff, then throw them off balance by feeding them a few doses of their own medicine. Get them watching their backs.
"Hang in there," he told her as he pulled open the door. "I'll let you know if I come up with something."
Jack walked away thinking about curiosity. One of his worst vices. Rarely did it fail to get him in trouble.
3.
Jack spent most of the afternoon looking at real estate. He finally found the place he wanted: a three-story Victorian town house on West Twenty-first Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues.
The place had a history, and Dolores, the chubby agent from Hudak Realty, told him the whole sordid story. The previous owner had been a psychiatrist who'd blown his head off near Times Square and left the place to one of his patients. The patient later had an accident in the house and didn't want to stay there. So she was offering it for lease, fully furnished.
"Perfect," Jack told her. "But I must, absolutely must move in immediately. Rehearsals begin tomorrow, and I simply can't have any distractions."
Dolores said she was sure that would be no problem. She seemed ga-ga over the fact that her client was the actor who would be taking over the part of Javert in Les Miserables. He promised her tickets for his first performance. "When I step on that stage, you will be in the audience."
Jack signed a one-year lease as Jack Ferris, then paid first-month and last-month rent plus a security deposit with a check from a Santa Monica bank. He'd be done with the place before it bounced.
On the way out of the Hudak office he managed to snag a few pieces of stationery, and a blank deposit receipt form.
He picked up a disposable Kodak camera and hurried back to snap a couple of photos of the town house before the light faded. Then he called Jorge and met him at the Malibu Diner on Twenty-third—decent coffee and a fabulous array of their own baked goods.
He gave him the camera and a sheet with the layout and copy for the flyers they'd planned.
"Get this printed up with the Hudak Realty letterhead on top. Then pass them out like we discussed."
Jorge looked at the camera, at the rough sketch of the flyer, then at Jack.
"This will get me the money I am owed?"
Jack shrugged. "It's bait. If Ramirez bites, we've got a shot. If he doesn't, we'll try something else."