Apt knew this because he had been there twice, running errands for Lawrence. Apt knew Duques was the executor of Lawrence's estate, which was why he was paying him a visit.
Apt used an electrical meter to check the rear chain-link fence for voltage, then bolt-cut a hole in it, all the time listening for dogs.
Through the window of the massive five-car garage was, of all things, a blue Mercedes convertible. It was an S65, even nicer than Lawrence's, with something like 600 horsepower.
Apt smiled at his luck as he checked the load in the suppressed Colt M1911 pistol. Instead of the rental car, which he'd left on the service road, he'd drive the German luxury rocket out of here when he was done.
He walked quickly around the perimeter of the imposing house until he spotted where the underground power and phone lines went in behind some azaleas. Sparks shot from the bolt cutter's blade as he snipped them both at the same time.
He started to pick the rinky-dink lock on the rear kitchen door, then decided instead to tap in its window with the handle of the bolt cutter. He was inside, approaching the dining room, when he saw it. A paper printout banner stretched chest high across the threshold:
MR. APT, I KNOW HOW UPSET YOU ARE. I AM NOT HOME. THERE IS A CELL PHONE ON THE DINING ROOM TABLE. PLEASE HIT THE REDIAL SO WE MAY SPEAK. ALLEN.
A trick? Apt thought, listening very carefully. Duques was smart, almost as smart as Lawrence.
After a minute, Apt broke through the banner and picked up the Motorola in the center of the huge antique Spanish farmhouse table.
"Carl, I'm so glad you called," Duques said with audible relief.
"Where's my money, Allen?" Apt said.
"I froze the account. I didn't know any other way to contact you. There have been some developments."
"You have my complete, undivided attention, Allen."
"I'm sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Berger is dead."
Carl closed his eyes as he took a long deep breath. Knowing this was coming didn't make it hurt any less.
He opened his eyes and stared at the painting over the sideboard. It looked French Impressionist, but he could tell right away that it was actually a cheap French Impressionist knockoff bought in Vietnam.
Carl swallowed, his eyes watering.
Lawrence had taught him that.
Lawrence had given him everything.
Chapter 96
"WAS IT HIS HEART?" Apt finally said.
"No. It looks like he committed suicide. He had some sort of pill hidden in his mouth when he was arrested. At least that's what the police are saying."
Carl thought about that. Lawrence dying alone. His friend. It broke his heart. If only he could have been there.
"Carl, are you still there?"
"Yes," Apt said, hiding the sadness howling through him. "What now?" he said.
"First off, in case this is being recorded, I would like to state that I, Allen Duques, am in no way complicit with any illegal activities, but am merely in the process of dispensing the will of the Lawrence M. Berger estate, of which I am sole executor."
"Whatever," Apt said. "Where's the money?"
"Yes, of course. In front of you, down the hallway, is my den. Do you see it?"
Apt crossed the room and pushed through some French doors.
"I'm there."
"Excellent. On the leather couch are two valises."
Apt clicked on the desk light.
"The black suitcases?" Apt said, spotting them.
"Yes."
Apt opened them without checking for wires. The thought of Duques blowing up his anal-retentive-designed interior of his mansion was laughable. Inside the bags were hundred-dollar bills. Lots and lots and lots of them. Stacks upon stacks.
"I apologize for the cumbersome number of bills. I would have liked to wire it to the account of your choice, but I had a visit today from the authorities that makes that extremely impractical. Lawrence actually anticipated as much and had me make these arrangements as a precaution. I believe there's a note for you in the bag on the left."
Apt opened it and slid out an expensive stationery card. Carl smiled at Lawrence's beautiful handwriting in his signature green ink. Carl, my most excellent friend,
Thank you. Only you could make my last days my best.
Never stop learning, Lawrence
"Mr. Berger wanted you to be happy, Carl," Duques said in his ear. "He always spoke of you so fondly."
Apt lowered the phone to wipe a tear away with his thumb before tucking the note back in the money bag. He was beyond touched. The big guy had done the right thing after all. His good buddy had more than taken care of him. How could he have doubted it for even a second?
"Carl, before I forget. Mr. Berger left a message for you. He said, and I quote, you needn't bother with the last name on the list. End quote. Whatever that means. He said you'd understand."
Apt thought about that. That didn't sound right. If anything, Lawrence had been most excited by the last name on his list. Did the Big L have a change of heart?
"You sure about that?" Apt said.
"He was quite emphatic about it. Consider your services rendered in full. Enjoy your reward. You've earned it. As this will be our final communication, it's been a pleasure knowing you."
"You, too, Allen. I have just one question."
"What's that?"
"Where do you keep the keys to the S Sixty-five?"
"My new car?" the lawyer sputtered. "Why? That has nothing to do with these arrangements."
"I thought we'd make a new arrangement."
"I don't understand."
"How's this?" Apt said. "I get the S Sixty-five and you don't come home to a smoking crater where this palace used to be."
There was a short silence.
"They're hanging on the back door to the butler's pantry," Duques said and hung up.
"Pleasure doing business with you," Apt said to the darkness as he backtracked toward the kitchen.
Chapter 97
THERE WAS A LARGE CROWD waiting out in front of the Sugar Bowl when I rolled past around eleven. A live band was playing tonight. It was the last concert of the summer, I remembered from a flyer. An up-and-coming band out of Ireland called the Gilroy Stompers was being touted as the next U2.
I thought Mary Catherine might like to go for a goof.
I parked and went inside the Bennett compound. The tiny house was still and quiet. I found Seamus asleep in front of the TV. Instead of waking him, I tossed one of the girls' pink Snuggies over him, then took out my phone and snapped a picture of him. I couldn't resist.
I peeked inside the door of the girls' room and smiled. There was more bed in the room than floor space. I stood for a moment, watching them sleep. The sight of them lying so peacefully warmed me in the way only being a parent can. While my day might have sucked, they'd managed to tack on another hopefully happy memory or two, grown another day older.
Who knows? Maybe they'd even grown a little stronger, a little more capable of dealing with this chaotic world they would one day inherit. I hoped so. I had a feeling they were going to need all the help they could get, the way things were going.
Kids could be challenging, oftentimes a downright pain in the ass, but in rare moments they made you see that maybe you were trying after all. Maybe you really were doing the best you could.
Stoked from my warm-and-fuzzy moment, I went into the kitchen, searching for a beer. I was popping open a can of Miller High Life when Mary Catherine came in from the back porch, a book and a blanket in her hands.
A smile started and spread wider and wider over my face as I stood staring at her. Beer foam spilled over onto my hand, and I kept smiling. I don't think I can properly describe how happy seeing her made me.