“Thank you, Anita. I’ll take care of it,” Wilson said, surprised by Zemke’s presence in Boston, but even more surprised by the unannounced visit. Looking at Savoy in frustration, he said, “Guess we can’t use the nullifier, can we?”
“Not if you expect them to believe you,” Savoy said.
Seconds later, Wilson strode into his father’s Victorian-style study, furnished with cherry wood shelves and heavy drapes. “Detective Zemke,” he said as he closed the double doors behind him.
“Didn’t want to bother you, but figured you’d appreciate the latest update on our investigation. I know I would, if it were my father in a coma,” Zemke said as he shook Wilson’s hand.
“Thank you, detective. Can I get you something to drink?” Wilson asked.
“Oh no, I won’t be long,” he said as he gazed around the two-story study with its book-lined walls. Then he looked more closely at some of the titles. “Impressive collection,” Zemke said.
“My father has been collecting first editions of early American literature ever since I can remember.”
“Must be worth a fortune,” Zemke returned with a slightly sarcastic edge.
Wilson remained quiet, standing in front of one of the study’s brown leather sofas, waiting for Zemke to join him. The detective’s congenial curiosity contrasted sharply with the gruff disinterest Wilson had experienced in Sun Valley.
“Smart guy, your father. Guess he could buy anything he wanted.”
Wilson’s heart beat faster. He didn’t respond.
Zemke continued to look around the study for a few moments before he sat down on a matching brown leather sofa across from Wilson. He looked more official this time-light gray slacks and a golf shirt, the same color as his wiry hair, paired with a navy blue blazer. But the same cynical insolence radiated from his penetrating eyes, despite the outward pleasantness.
“We’ve uncovered a piece of new information since we last talked. The two executed women were daughters of one of your father’s business associates,” Zemke said, watching closely for Wilson’s reaction.
“From Fielder amp; Company?” Wilson blurted, shocked by the news.
“No. One of your father’s clients. Davis Zollinger, Chairman and CEO of Dutton Industries. Know him?”
“No,” Wilson said, his head was spinning. “Was he at White Horse?”
“No chance of that. Died six months ago. Apparent suicide. Boston PD’s looking into it again.”
Reeling with new questions about Zollinger and his daughters and what they had to do with his father, Wilson waited in anguish for Zemke to tell him more.
“Zollinger allegedly shot himself in the head with a.22 LR caliber pistol. Same type of gun used at White Horse. They found him the next day in his office on the twenty-ninth floor of the Dutton Industries Building, downtown Boston.”
“You’re assuming his death is related to the murder attempt on my father?” Wilson said, leaning forward.
“Won’t know that for a while,” Zemke said, maintaining his relaxed, authoritative position on the couch, but his bright blue eyes were actively probing Wilson. “There’s more here than I thought, especially after your father’s attorney was killed. We’re stepping up our investigation.”
“Good,” Wilson managed to say, but without much conviction.
“Boston PD is getting ready to close its investigation into the accident that killed Mr. Redd and Ms. O’Grady. With nothing at the scene of the accident and no charges from Fielder amp; Company or KaneWeller, there’s little reason to keep the case open. If we find a connection to what happened in Sun Valley, they promised to reopen the case,” Zemke’s sharp eyes were still trained on Wilson, watchful for any reaction.
Wilson’s grief and anger over Daniel and his cold-blooded murder, while in the service of Fielder amp; Company, returned with a vengeance, making him feel guilty and-irrationally-complicit in some way. But Wilson wasn’t yet ready to tell the police or any other law enforcement agency about Fielder amp; Company’s dark side. Daniel’s words rang in his head: There are better ways to find out what happened here. Ironically, following Daniel’s advice meant treating his death like an accident-at least until he could prove otherwise. Shaking his head in disgust, Wilson said, “I still can’t believe he’s gone-and in such a senseless accident.”
Zemke studied Wilson for several moments. “By the way,” he finally said, raising his chin and looking down his nose at Wilson. “I meant to thank you for the tip you gave me about your father hating guns and favoring his left hand-doesn’t make sense that he’d shoot those two women and himself with his right hand. We’re considering the possibility that someone tried to make it look like a murder-suicide.”
“I continue to believe he’s innocent, detective,” Wilson said as Daniel’s words reverberated in his head. At times like these, Wilson regretted his penchant for bully busting. The way he’d handled Zemke in Sun Valley had not only empowered the detective, but the Boston PD as well. It would only be a matter of time before they began investigating his father’s financial and business activities, he thought. “Do you have any other leads?” Wilson asked.
“Nothing right now, but something’ll break. Always does.”
“Thank you, detective,” Wilson said, standing up and waiting to escort Zemke to the front door.
Ignoring Wilson’s attempt to conclude the conversation, Zemke dug deeper. “Apparently, Davis Zollinger was a longtime associate of your father’s.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Wilson said, annoyed by Zemke’s persistence. “I haven’t been involved in my father’s business. I only know a handful of his clients and associates.”
“Your father’s firm helped Dutton Industries sell off some of its divisions. I don’t understand all those financial manipulations, but I’d wager that you do,” Zemke said, making no attempt to veil the accusation.
Wilson cringed at the detective’s tone and his choice of words. “I’m a management consultant, detective, not an investment banker,” Wilson retorted, feeling more vulnerable by the second.
“Has anyone ever tried to blackmail your father?” Zemke asked.
“Not that I know of, why?” Wilson said, sitting down again while keeping his eyes fixed on Zemke.
“Zollinger’s daughters tried to get the FBI to investigate their father’s death. Claimed their father was a member of some sort of secret society that was blackmailing him into siphoning money out of Dutton Industries. When their father decided to go to the authorities, he was killed.”
“What did the FBI find?”
“Not a thing. Pretty much closed the investigation after a couple of months. Lack of evidence. Considered it to be one more unsubstantiated conspiracy theory. According to friends of the family, the daughters went into hiding out of fear for their lives. Said they’d received a bunch of threatening phone calls.”
“That explains the phony IDs.”
“Sounds pretty farfetched, huh?” Zemke said, beginning to believe that Wilson indeed knew very little about his father’s business activities.
Wilson didn’t respond to Zemke’s probe.
“We need access to Fielder amp; Company’s files. Any problems with that?”
“Not at all,” Wilson pretended. “Contact Weintraub, Drake, Heinke amp; Redd. They’re the company’s legal counsel,” Wilson said, nervously questioning whether Bill Heinke would be able to restrict the scope of access to Fielder amp; Company’s files afforded to Zemke, the Boston PD, or the FBI. He wanted to prevent a full-blown, asset-freezing investigation into his father’s life and business practices. He needed to go through his father’s files at Fielder amp; Company before they did, cleansing them if necessary. Not because he wanted to obstruct justice, he just needed to slow things down until the estate was liquidated and his loved ones were protected.
“We’ll be in touch.” Zemke stood up abruptly. As the detective was about to leave the house, he turned to Wilson. “Before Boston PD closes the Daniel Redd case, do you have any reason to believe that his death was something other than an accident?”