The Unquiet Dead Page 17

  “Sorry I’m late. I had to wait for the tiger to leave.”

  A kinder way of referring to Melanie than Hadley’s “Mad Mel.” For Cassidy’s sake, he thought. It couldn’t go on. Whatever secrets they shared between them, he would have to find a way to them move forward.

  “Your mother gave me permission to ask you a few questions.”

  “That’s because she’s an idiot,” Hadley said without blinking.

  “You and your mother aren’t close?”

  She made a quick, precise movement with her hands, directing him away from the table to the adjoining living room. They took seats at the far end in front of the bay window.

  “I want to hear,” Cassidy protested.

  “No you don’t. Sit with her, Riv.”

  The boy obeyed, his eyes gentle on Cassidy’s upturned face.

  In the living room Hadley turned her full attention on Khattak. “I can’t stand her, and the feeling is mutual.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Why? I’ve got one good parent which is better than a lot of kids.” She flicked a hand at Riv. “Riv’s parents are potheads who got him hooked.” She narrowed her eyes at Khattak. “I’ll deny that if you try to make anything of it.”

  Khattak nodded gravely, careful not to look over at Marco. “That doesn’t interest me at present. I was wondering how well your father knew Christopher Drayton.”

  He had been expecting panic, but there was anger in the set of her face, anger and something more. Bleakness.

  “Mad Mel was planning to marry him, so Dad had to get to know him a little.”

  “What were his feelings about the marriage?”

  “He was ecstatic.” Hadley’s voice was dry. “Mel’s had him on a very tight leash since the divorce. Chris marrying Mel meant freedom for all of us.”

  “How so?”

  “Dad wouldn’t have to pay out the monstrous spousal support that keeps Mel afloat. She’s never had to work for anything. And even if she did, minimum wage wouldn’t pay for her surgeries.” She pinned Khattak with a steely gaze. “Do you think she’s beautiful?”

  “I’m sure many men would think so.”

  “They’d be idiots. There’s nothing real about Mad Mel—either inside or outside.”

  Her contempt was undercut by the pain beneath her words.

  “Do you think that’s what men like?” she went on. “All that plastic tarting-up? So you can’t tell what’s real or not, just that there’s a lot of it?”

  She gave her own slender frame an unsparing glance. She was still young enough to need approval, to wonder if she suffered from the comparison to her lavishly endowed mother.

  Khattak answered with care. “Without taking anything away from your mother, I think it’s safe to say that most men have a more discerning palate. Less can be more.” He thought of Mink’s elegant hands sliding over her manuscripts.

  “You really think so?”

  “I think Marco would agree with me. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he entered the room.”

  The boy flashed him a grin from the dining table.

  “He’s probably worried that you’re grilling me.”

  Khattak smiled the smile of a man who’d once stood in an adolescent’s besotted shoes. “That’s not worry I see in his face.”

  She heard the humor in his voice and blushed. His words must have been some comfort, because she pushed her shoulders back and raised her head to meet his gaze. “Dad was actually very grateful to Chris. He was taking a huge problem off Dad’s hands, and we would have been free to move in with our father after that, so no more extortionate child support either.”

  She placed a heavy emphasis on the word extortionate. It must have been her father’s word. It made Khattak think of the letters. He’d get to those in a moment.

  “I understood that you were to live with Christopher Drayton after the wedding took place. You have rooms at his house, your mother said.”

  “No.” Hadley’s voice flattened. “We were never going to live there. Not in this lifetime or any other. The wedding was the end of the road for us.”

  “Didn’t you like Mr. Drayton?”

  “We have a perfectly good father of our own, so why would we settle for a substitute? Why would I want to be around Mel a minute longer than I need to? She makes no secret of the fact that we’d just be in the way.”

  And yet, she couldn’t entirely hide the note of longing in her voice. No matter how harshly she spoke of her mother, there were better memories buried beneath her pain.

  “She mentioned that Christopher Drayton wanted a family.”

  “Did she?” Hadley said without inflection. “What he wanted and what I want are two very different things.”

  “What about Cassidy?”

  He caught the flare of panic on Hadley’s face.

  “No,” she said, a grim anger in her voice. “Cass goes where I go.”

  “Unless she decides otherwise.”

  He said it to get to the root of her alarm.

  “Cass feels the same way about things as I do,” Hadley muttered.

  But did she? What did this forthright, clever girl fear so much that she balked at telling him the truth? Because something in her manner spoke eloquently of deception.

  “Tell me about the fight.”

  Instantly, she went still and quiet. She shook her head, freckles standing out against her pallor.

  “I can’t. I don’t—”

  “Hadley.” He leaned forward, his tone confiding. “This is not your burden to carry. You don’t need to protect Christopher Drayton or anyone else.”

  He’d said the wrong thing. He’d only reminded her of what she thought she had to lose by speaking.

  “There’s nothing. I don’t know anything.”

  He tried another tack.

  “Did you ever see any unusual letters in Drayton’s possession? Did your mother ever talk about them?”

  The change of subject afforded her no relief. If she held herself any more closely, her bones would snap.

  “Letters? No, not letters.”

  “Something else then? A will perhaps? Papers to do with the museum?”

  “No, nothing.” She was lying. And the more she elaborated, the more evident it became. “We only went there to study Italian. I wouldn’t say we were friends.”

  Khattak cast about. “Was he a good teacher?”

  “He was all right.” She bit her lip. “The only reason Mel wanted us to have those lessons was so that she could work on Chris. Flirt with him, get him interested. I guess it worked.”

  She should have said, “Obviously, it worked.” That’s what the bitterness in her voice conveyed, a bitterness he couldn’t place. Her phrasing told him that there was something else going on entirely.

  He raised his voice slightly. “Did you go to these lessons, Marco? With a name like yours, you must have been interested in Italian yourself.”

  “Sometimes. If Hadley couldn’t go and Cass had a lesson, I’d go.”

  “Why was that?”

  A frozen silence stretched between Hadley and Riv. It was broken by Hadley’s sharp intake of breath. “Cass likes company. She’s younger than she seems. That’s why she’s not prepared to let go of Mad Mel just yet.”

  Every piece of information directed him back to Melanie Blessant and away from Christopher Drayton. At some cost to Hadley, he realized.

  “I thought you said Cassidy was ready to move with you to your father’s.”

  She faltered for a moment but hit back hard with, “I said after Chris and Mel got married. What sense does it make to live in a stranger’s house when we have a beautiful home of our own? Cass and I weren’t about to be split up for the sake of Mel’s libido.”

  It was a bold performance, but the hint of uncertainty that underscored the last word rendered it false. There was something dark under Hadley Blessant’s collected surface, something else beneath the stony front she tried to projec
t.

  She was a girl in trouble.

  And with a man like Dražen Krstić, he feared what that trouble might be.

  He turned his attention to Cassidy, whose head was diligently bent over her work.

  Hadley came to her feet with startling force. “I don’t think I want to answer any more of your questions, Inspector. And if you want to talk to Cassidy, you’ll have to ask my dad.”

  “I have your mother’s permission.” He made the observation only to test her response.

  “You need to ask the parent who actually cares about our welfare, and that would be my father. Now, please—leave us alone. We have work to do if we’re going to meet the deadline for the opening.” Her shrill voice rang through the room, causing Cassidy to turn their way, bewildered.

  “I appreciate your honesty,” he said, his tone mild. “I didn’t mean for my questions to upset you. I just want you to know—” He came to his feet as well. “If you ever need help, you can talk to me or Rachel at any time.”

  He hoped she would believe him.

  “Why are you so interested in Chris’s death? It’s not because you think he fell, is it?”

  And just like that, his moment was before him. A moment when he could open his investigation up a little, trading truth for truth, offering honesty in exchange for a reluctantly given confidence, proving himself worthy of a teenage girl’s trust.

  Yet the cataclysmic secret of Drayton’s identity could not be released at will: not without consulting Tom Paley, not without mapping out the implications for the Department of Justice, Immigration, and most of all, for the Bosnian community.

  The ugliness of Dražen Krstić’s life darkened the space between them. Hadley caught his hesitation, but he went on regardless.

  “We don’t think Drayton was who he claimed to be. We fear there was another side to him altogether. It’s possible that whatever secrets he kept may have led to his death. But I think you already know this.”

  “The Bluffs are treacherous. People often think they’re safe when they’re not.” She whispered the words through lips so dry they were stretched taut against her gums.

  “We’ve considered that possibility as well.”

  “Good—I mean, good.”

  She didn’t say anything else, although Khattak gave her time. It wasn’t working. Nothing he’d said had convinced her to trust him. She was much too frightened. Not of someone but for someone.

  “What did your father and Drayton argue about?” he asked at last.

  Hadley raised one arm in front of her body as if to ward off his question. Tears spattered her freckled skin. Throat working, she opened her mouth to speak. And then fainted dead away.

  22.

  Mr. Stakić is here. He’s a physician just like I am, and he made decisions concerning the camps. He knew that we were there. He knew that his colleague Jusuf Pasic, who was facing retirement, had been taken to Omarska and killed there. He knew about dozens of doctors, physicians being taken to Omarska and killed. Why? These people were the Muslim intelligentsia and they meant something. Is there an answer to all of this?

  Charles Brining’s office was located in one of the gleaming glass towers that stood opposite the Scarborough Town Center. As they traveled through the air-conditioned chill of its lobby and elevator, Rachel cast a surreptitious glance at her boss.

  Was it her imagination or was Khattak’s smooth front unraveling a little? The knot on his tie lacked its usual exactness. The pen inside his shirt pocket had leaked ink, leaving a small blue teardrop at its corner. His manner was abstracted, his forehead creased as if he was fighting off a headache. Which only made sense, after his disastrous interview with Hadley Blessant. He’d given her the barest of details, admitting candidly to his failure. And his sense of shame.

  She hoped their time with Drayton’s lawyer would be more profitable. To that end, she’d made more of an effort than usual with her dress code. On the whole, she detested lawyers, although every now and again, she came across one who made her forget their unmitigated unhelpfulness when she’d tried to emancipate herself and Zachary from Don Getty’s control. Charles Brining wasn’t one of them. He was a twig-thin, nervous man in his sixties with the bespectacled face of an absentminded owl and the irritating habit of clearing his throat before each utterance.

  He met them in his firm’s conference room, a space that aimed at the glamour of the high-powered conglomerates on Bay Street. The seedy, well-thumbed magazines gave the lie to a shining mahogany conference table and the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out upon ramps to the 401.

  His discreet assessment of the duo from CPS took in Rachel’s crumpled Banana Republic suit in an unflattering shade of taupe and the ink stain on Khattak’s otherwise pristine shirt.

  “I’ve considered the will, as you’ve asked,” he said as an opener. He had the querulous voice of an elderly woman unable to follow the bidding at her bridge game. “It’s quite straightforward. With the exception of a single bequest, he leaves his fortune in its entirety to a Mrs. Melanie Blessant. The house and the chattel are left to the same—ah—lady.”

  Rachel pounced. “You’ve met her, then.”

  Brining blinked at her through his spectacles. “Yes, ah—yes. Mr. Drayton brought her with him once.”

  “Did he discuss the disposition of the will with her?”

  “I advised him not to do so.”

  Rachel and Khattak exchanged a glance.

  “Why was that?”

  “General prudence.” Brining cleared his throat, his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he spoke. “The lady has a somewhat—grasping demeanor.”

  Rachel grinned. “Did she ask you about the will?”

  “She spent her time in our lounge, refurbishing her nail polish. She did—ah, drop in to ask a question or two, but naturally, I was not at liberty to speak of Mr. Drayton’s confidential matters.”

  “Naturally,” Rachel agreed. “You mentioned another bequest.”

  Brining worried the tip of his tongue against his lips, a motion that caused the tuft of white hair on his head to shiver slightly. “Yes. Of a charitable nature in that it was a bequest to a registered nonprofit. Informally, I believe it’s known as Ringsong. The name on record is the Andalusia Museum Project. The fund was to be administered by the museum’s board of directors.”

  “When you say ‘fund,’ how much money are we talking?”

  Brining looked abashed, as if the mention of actual hard numbers was an indecency. “My dear Sergeant Getty, the man had done quite well out of his business. Even with all that’s owed in taxes and death duties, he was quite comfortably able to bequeath the museum a quarter of a million dollars.”

  “What?” Rachel hissed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I assure you I am not.”

  “But why would he want to give so much money to such a small project?”

  “It was quite a passion project of his. He wanted to leave a legacy, and the Reconquest of Spain from the Moors was a legacy he respected very much. It seemed somehow personal to him. Is that helpful to you?”

  “It confirms certain theories,” Khattak said, echoing the lawyer’s noncommittal manner.

  “Then perhaps I should add that the amount available to Mrs. Blessant is substantially more.”

  “How much more?”

  “Something in the nature of two million.”

  Rachel’s shock was evident.

  “Just what type of business was he in?”

  “He operated a parking lot in the city that was remarkably lucrative. And of course, he brought savings with him from his businesses in Italy.”

  Rachel’s knees knocked together. The thought of Melanie Blessant in possession of so much ill-gained fortune made her feel nauseated.

  “Do you know the nature of those businesses?”

  “Import-export, I believe. Christopher didn’t discuss the specifics with me.”

  “You were on a first-name b
asis?”

  Brining bristled. “It’s atypical, I assure you. We were of a similar age, with similar interests. He was a hospitable man: we socialized occasionally.”

  Rachel rushed to soothe him. “Of course. You say you had similar interests. Might I ask what those were?”

  Brining’s smile was unexpected. It disclosed a series of irregular, closely corralled teeth with a gap at the center.

  “I’m quite fond of vacationing in Italy. The food is divine. And we both enjoy a tinker in our gardens. Peaceable hobbies.”

  “Indeed.” Khattak cut in. “What would happen to Mr. Drayton’s bequests, if it became public knowledge that Christopher Drayton was not in fact his true identity?”

  The unexpectedly charming smile disappeared. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

  “If Christopher Drayton was an assumed identity rather than a real one.”

  A shrewd flash of intuition lit up Brining’s eyes. “Is that the nature of your interest in this matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose it would depend. If the identity was a legal identity, as per a perfectly justifiable legal name change, it would have no impact at all. If he’d never formally registered a change of name, there would be issues, certainly, but none that might not be overcome with careful and thorough paperwork.”

  Careful and thorough paperwork were Charles Brining’s holy grail, Rachel deduced at once.

  “That’s not the issue, is it, Inspector?” Brining’s rheumy gaze darted between the two detectives. “If Mr. Drayton were some type of fugitive or if the funds themselves were to be of suspect provenance—illegally gotten gains,” he elucidated for Rachel’s benefit, “then naturally, the bequests would be held up until Christopher’s legal right to the funds could be determined. If any of his assets were found to be the gains of criminal enterprise, they would be seized by the jurisdiction most concerned with the crime.” He lowered his voice. “Does this pertain to organized crime?”

  “We don’t have that information yet, although we are in the process of acquiring it. Would you be able to do something for us, sir?”

  “That—ah—depends.” Ever cautious, the lawyer waited for clarification.

  “Would you notify the beneficiaries of their bequests but also warn them that the actual dispensation of funds will be held up until our investigation is concluded?”