inherit the dead - read an excerpt!

7/30/2019 Inherit the Dead - Read an excerpt!

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I n h e r I t

t h e D e a DA Novelby

Mark billinghaM lawrence block c. J. box

ken bruen alafair burke Stephen l. carter

Marcia clark Mary higginS clark Max allan collinS

John connolly JaMeS grady heather grahaM

bryan gruley charlaine harriS Val McderMid

S. J. rozan Jonathan Santlofer dana Stabenow

liSa unger Sarah weinMan

edited by Jonathan Santlofer

with an introduction by lee child

and an afterword by linda fairStein

a touchStone book

publiShed by SiMon & SchuSter

new york london toronto Sydney new delhi


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TouchstoneA Division o Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue o the Americas

New York, NY 10020

This book is a work o ction. Any reerences to historical events, real people,

or real places are used ctitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events

are products o the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events

or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2013 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereo in any

orm whatsoever. For inormation address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department,

1230 Avenue o the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Touchstone hardcover edition October 2013

TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks o Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For inormation about special discounts or bulk purchases, please contact

Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event.For more inormation or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster

Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Designed by Akasha Archer

Manuactured in the United States o America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN 978-1-4516-8475-9

ISBN 978-1-4516-8478-0 (ebook)


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i

one o the most oten repeated legends in the publishing world is

that crime ction writers are the nicest o all. The theory is that

they work out all their angst and all their aggression on the page by

killing made-up people in all kinds o gruesome ways, thereby leav-

ing their real lives ull o nothing but kindness, generosity, and gauzy

goodwill. Consequently, they help, support, and encourage one an-

other. The success o one is celebrated by all, and theyre always ready

to drop everything to help out with a good cause.

Thats the legend.

Is it true?

Well, yes, it is. All o us were new to the scene once, and all o us

can testiy to the help and support and encouragement we received

rom those who came beore. All o us remember being sincerely and

genuinely congratulated on whatever small successes came our way

both by those who let such milestones behind long ago and by those

yet to reach them. All o us have had fat spots or diculties, and allo us have been helped out o them by the others.

But what about dropping everything or a good cause?

Thats true, too. Youre holding the proo in your handsa se-

rial novel that combines the eorts o twenty great crime writers in

a twisted noir tale so seamless it shows just how cooperative crime

ction writers can be when they put their talents together. Inherit

the Dead is as nasty and dark as it is un, every chapter a surprise yetinevitable.


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viii IntroductIon

But how did it come about?

Well, Linda Fairstein needs no introduction as an acclaimed crime

writer, but shes also a real-lie prosecutor on some very tragic criminal

cases. Linda, being Linda, wanted to do more than just secure convic-

tions. She wanted to draw attention to Sae Horizon, the largest vic-

tims support charity in the United States, that provides assistance o

every kind to victims o crime, long ater the legal dust has settled.

And Jonathan Santloer needs no introduction as an acclaimed

crime writer either or as an acclaimed painterwhich he is, too, by

the wayand which helps make my point: he generally doesnt have

much spare time on his hands. But Jonathan happily agreed to put

the book together and to help the charity. The idea was to assemble

an extraordinary cast o bestselling contributors who would combine

their creative talents and help support Sae Horizons vital work.

So he put out a call to his wish list o contributorseven though

he knew that none o them was exactly sitting around doing noth-

ing. At a rough guess, between them theyll publish about thirty or so

novels this year, and I know theres major involvement in ve or six

TV series and a coupleor moremajor movies; and they all have

amilies, and they all have personal projects o their own.

So what did they all say?

They all said yes. Immediately. They dropped everything and ral-

lied around a good cause. Im proud to call them my riends, my peers,and my colleagues. And Im delighted to have a good book to read. I

hope you will be, too. And thank you or helping out by buying it.

Crime writers really are a great bunch o people.

Crime readers, too.

Lee ChiLd

Nw Yk

2013


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1Jonathan Santlofer

the call had been unexpected. The reerencea riend o a riend

o a riendtoo complicated to ollow. But the jobi it turned

into a jobwas simple enough, a missing person. Or so the caller had

said. But Perry Christo, ormer NYPD homicide detective turned

private investigator, knew nothing was ever simple.

It was six years now since hed let the NYPD. That was the way

he always said it:I left the police department six years ago. As opposed

to the truth: that he had been red. More specically: asked to leave

before he was red.

Pericles Alexandros Christo, Perry to his riends (though he didnt

have manyhis choice). His mother was the only one who had dared

call him Pericles (and live). Forty-our years old, disgraced cop, di-vorced, one o those men who saw his child every other weekend and

sometimes less. His ault. He tugged his collar up against the wind

as he cut across Third Avenue. It was the kind o winter day that

reminded residents Manhattan was an island surrounded by water,

icy water, an unprotected twenty-our square miles o land that had

nothing to shield it rom the chill other than glass and steel skyscrap-

ers that only helped create wind tunnels and lonely corridors.But the address Perry was headed or, 720 Park Avenue, only a


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2 iNherit the dead

dozen or so blocks rom his Yorkville one-bedroom, could have been

a hundred miles away in every conceivable way and buered by

something special: money.

The call had come the night beore.

Its my daughter. Shes missing and

Did you call the police?

No. Its . . . a family matter. And I want to keep it that way.

How long?

How long . . . what?

How long has she been missing?

Oh. A week. No. Closer to two.

Perry thought: Two weeks. I his daughter were missing or two

days hed have called out the National Guard.

Thats a long time.

A pause. Well, my daughter, Angel, has a tendency to . . . wander.

Now and then.

Wander?

Yes. Take a trip, go off with a friend. Shes not a child. Shes twenty.

And she doesnt live with me.

Who does she live with?

Her father.

And I presume he hasnt heard from her.

You presume correctly.Have you checked with her friends?

Of course. The words barked.

Perry could tell this would be no ordinary mother-and-child re-

union.

You will help me, Detective.

It was not a question. And Perry had not answered it. Instead, he

waited or her next command, which ollowed.Come see me. Now.


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Chapter 1 JoNathaN SaNtLofer 3

Now?

Is that a problem?

Nowas in ten at nightwhen he was already in his underwear,

eet up, watching a Law & Order rerun. Clearly a woman used to

getting what she wanted when she wanted it. But i she could wait

nearly two weeks, she could wait another eight hours.

Ill see you in the morning.

But you will get started right away.

Again, not a question.

Well see, hed said, though he knew he would take the case. A

job was a job. And with the current economy he needed every one,

though he was doing okay. Four years now since hed started his own

PI rm. More than hal o his tiny apartment was his ad hoc oce:

two computers, a scanner, video equipment, a digital camera with an

extra-long telephoto lens, listening devices. Things he never imagined

hed be using, but necessary or the work he did or his biggest clients:

insurance companies. Spent his days spying on people out dancing

and climbing trees when they claimed they couldnt walk.

Its my daughter, shes missing . . .

The womans words replayed in Perrys mind as he quickened his

step against the cold.

He didnt particularly like missing personslocates, as they

were called in the business. Most o them were people who didntwant to be ound, embezzlers or ex-husbands behind on child sup-

port, the latter his least avorite and something he turned down when

he could. Perry hadnt missed a child support payment in ve years,

even at his lowest point when it meant skipping mealsbut a miss-

ing girl, even one twenty years old, was something else, something to

worry about.

Unless shed run away. Perry turned the corner, more icy wind inhis ace. Most runaways were teenagers, he knew that, young ones


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4 iNherit the dead

who didnt know yet how tough it could be out in the cold, cold

world. Perry had ound more than his share o them. Girls and boys

out o the plains states, corn-ed innocents, pretty young things whod

run away because they hated their parents or good and bad reasons.

A mistake either way, which they learned working Manhattans mean

streets. Most turning up scared and sick, ruined, a ew who might be

saved (though he was never sure); every one o them another scar on

his soul, to see what the world could do to a kid.

Perry tugged the woolen scara git rom Nickytighter

around his neck.

Its not my birthday, kiddo.

Does it have to be your birthday to get a gift, Daddy? You give me

things all the time.

Nicky had draped the scar around his necksot wool, blue and

tan stripes. See, it matches your eyes, Daddy.

Impossible. Theres no red in this scarf, and my eyes are always blood-

shot.

Oh, pul-leese, Daddy. Your eyes are blue, like mine!

The best kid in the worldand he had lost her. Well, not entirely.

But every other weekend was like a prison sentence, though one he

would wait out because in another three years shed be eighteen and

thinking about college. Barnard on the Upper West Side. Something

Perry had suggested. He was already checking out two-bedroomapartments in the area.

The thought made him smile, but looking around at the passersby

he noted he was the only one. Lexington Avenue was clogged with

people trudging to work on streets slick with ice or stepping over gut-

ters lled with blackened snow, all o them rowning.

A strong gust o wind made him shiver. Hed walked only a ew

blocks, but he was reezing. His winter coat, a three-year-old trenchwith a cheap zip-in lining, wasnt doing the trick. His gloveless


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handshed lost the third pair he had bought on the street a week

agowere jammed into his pockets and going numb. I Nicky no-

ticed, shed be getting him a new pair or sure. God, how he loved

that kid. His best work, or sure.

Last nights call played again as he crossed Lexington Avenue.

Ill expect you at nine, Detective.

One more time Perry had neglected to correct his status with the

client he was about to see. Six years since hed been a detective. A lie-

time, though Perry still saw it like it was yesterday, that damn Bayer

case immediately in his mind.

A taxis blaring horn brought him back to the moment in the

middle o the street, but not or long.

I know you would never do anything bad, Daddy.

The look on his daughters ace when shed said thatbravery

mixed with sadness mixed with conusion, trying to smile, to make

him eel better.

Youre right, sweetheart. I wouldnt. And I didnt.

The taxi beeped again, the driver leaning out his window, Get

out o the street, asshole!

Perry fipped him the nger as he dodged and jogged across the

street then headed on to Park Avenue.

Could it be that the cold was a little less bitter here, the air

sweeter? No dirty snow in the gutters. No ice on the perectly cleansidewalks.

The rich, thought Perry.

He took in the wide avenue lined with beautiul old apartment

buildings and beautiul new ones. He made it only halway across,

stopped by trac, on the center divider where there were tulips in

spring and begonias in summer, trees all year round. The median was

currently housing large Botero sculptures o bulky men and women,three or our to a block, bronze gures lightly dusted with last weeks


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6 iNherit the dead

snow that gave them the look o huge Christmas ornaments. Perry

noted one lone icicle hanging o the breast o a sculpted woman and

wondered why the city needed sculptures o at people in the middle

o its ritziest avenue? Was it to make all the rich ladies, those social

X-rays starving themselves to death, eel better, thinner? As i that

were possible.

Perry ficked his nger at the icicle, watched it shatter. A woman

beside him in a dark mink raised an eyebrow, or tried, her Botoxed

mask as rozen as the ice. In a ew months, he knew there would be

other sculptures, then fowers, niceties ew parts o the city could a-

ord but apparently a requirement or this neighborhood.

Perry reconsidered what he had managed to glean rom several

hours on the Internet about Julia Drusilla. She was a socialite who

was no longer very social, her name and ace having disappeared

rom the society pages over the past ew years. Thered been men-

tion o her parents deaths a decade ago, and the act that her ather

had madeand marrieda ortune. Plus a ew reerences to Julia

Drusillas charitable giving. Beyond that, she remained a mystery.

One he was about to conront.

Seven twenty Park was a limestone and sienna prewar build-

ing, solid and substantial-looking, with an arched entrance and

canopied walkway. Huge urns with seasonal evergreens stood beside

the double-door entrance. A doorman, red-nosed and with grayingtemples, white gloves, and a uniorm so starched it could have stood

on its own, opened the door while Perry attempted to smooth his

own windblown hair into place. Suddenly everything about him elt

wrong: his coat, his gloveless hands, his chewed cuticles, his old uni-

orm dress shoes, which had surely lost their luster. Why hadnt he

polished them?

A ew steps inside were small heaters warming the oyer soresidents did not have to reeze while waiting or cars and drivers or


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taxis, and right now Perry appreciated them. He rubbed his hands

together while a second doorman, this one a young Latino, looked

him up and down with something more than the usual doorman ap-

praisal, though Perry wasnt sure what, or why.

May I help you, sir?

Im here to see Julia Drusilla.

Something ticked on the young mans ace, barely noticeable but

Perry caught it.

Your name?

Perry Christo. Shes expecting me.

One moment, sir. The young doorman plucked the house phone

o the wall. Mrs. Drusilla Another tic, this one longer, eye blink-

ing, corner o the mouth tipping up to meet it. There is a Mr. Ex-

cuse me, Im sorry

Christo.

A Mr. Christo here to see you. The doorman nodded at Perry

and oered a smile that actually seemed riendly. Then he angled his

jaw toward a large lobby. Just through there, sir. He replaced the

phone with an audible sigh.

Perry wondered i it was the job or Julia Drusilla that had caused

the sigh along with the acial tics.

The elevator is at the rear. Thats the top foor. Penthouse A.

Perry crossed the large lobby, its centerpiece a huge display ocalla lilies arranged in an even huger vase. The room was overheated,

Perry going rom cold to hot in a matter o seconds, the fora adding

an exotic, jungle quality. Behind it, he caught his refection in foor-

to-ceiling mirrors fecked with gold. He attempted to smooth the

wrinkles out o his trench then gave up, took it o, and olded it over

his arm. It didnt help. His shirt was wrinkled, too. He looked like a

door-to-door salesman whod come to the wrong door.The elevator had more heat, more gold, and more mirrors, but


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8 iNherit the dead

Perry didnt need another look to conrm that his wool sports jacket

looked tatty, his out-o-date tie too wide.

The elevator deposited him into an equally overheated hallway

leading to only two apartmentsone to the east and one to the west.

The door to the west apartment, directly opposite, was still adorned

with a Christmas wreath and had a brand-new sisal doormat. The

door to the east apartment, at the ar end o the hallway, was bare,

and there was no welcome mat.

Perry pressed the bell. There was a low chime rom somewhere

inside the apartment, and then the door opened and Julia Drusilla

stood there, backlit, a dark skeleton.

Come in, she said, her voice a rasping whisper.

Perry closed the door behind him. In contrast to the stuy lobby

and hallway, the penthouse was not heated. It actually elt air-

conditioned, with cool breezes issuing rom invisible ducts that fut-

tered his hair and made him shiver.

Julia Drusilla, elegant in a sleeveless white tunic, was already

moving down her hallway into a living room large enough to house

ve or six o his entire Yorkville apartment, her bare eet soundless on

black marble foors that refected nothing and gave the place the look

o an endless pit. The ceilings were high, the urniture low and sur-

prisingly sparewhite couches, small slate tables. But the most im-

pressive part o the apartment was the view behind the glass, whichran the entire length o the living room and the terrace beyond. He

caught a glimpse o a terrace dotted with evergreens and what looked

like ragments o sculpture, a larger-than-lie-size marble oot, hal

a toga-clad torso. Beyond that, the spires o Manhattan apartments,

a swath o Central Park, and low-hanging clouds in an endless gray

sky.

You have a magnicent view, said Perry, taking a ew stepscloser.


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Julia Drusilla turned her head toward the glass then back at Perry.

Her pale gray eyes caught the light, startling and beautiul, but with

something hard and impenetrable behind them. I suppose, she said.

But one gets used to such things. I rarely notice.

The sculpture That oot . . .

There are a ew others you cant see unless you go out there, and

more at my homes in Palm Beach and Aspen, though I rarely go to

either anymore. She sighed, a bony, perectly manicured hand at her

throat. Theyre all Roman, late empire. The early and mid period

are impossible to nd; the museums have greedily scooped them

up. But Im happy with the sculptures I have. They remind me that

people die but culture lives on.

Can I borrow that or my tombstone?

Julia Drusilla peered at him, her gray eyes narrowed. Is that a

joke?

Sorry, said Perry. Not a very good one.

No, she said, with a ficker o anger beore she gazed back at the

terrace. You may go out there, i youd like, to see the sculptures. I

never do. Im not a an o heights.

Then why

Live in a penthouse on the twenty-ourth foor? She smiled or a

hal second, translucent skin tugging away rom large, capped teeth.

It was my husbandsmy ex-husbands ideaand I got used to it,but . . . She seemed lost or a moment then ocused on Perry. Youre

not what I expected.

That bad, huh?

Another joke?

Fraid so.

Julia Drusilla rowned. Youre younger and better looking. I

imagined a private detective would be some sort o tough guy with agreasy little mustache and bad shoes.


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10 iNherit the dead

Perry looked down at his old police dress shoes. Theyd been good

years back but not so good now, though theyd apparently passed

some small test.

He glanced up and past Julia at a large abstract painting. Pol-

lock?

Yes, she said, and cast a reappraising eye at him. You really

arent the typical private detective, are you?

My mother was an artist. Well, sort o.

How nice or you, she said, brittle edging on bitter. Mine

was . . . She shook her head and looked back at the painting. I

bought it at auction, at Sothebys, just last week.

Oh yes, I read about the sale. Perry couldnt remember the exact

price, but it had been newsworthy. Front page. It had set a record or

a Jackson Pollock painting, something astronomical, in the millions;

the buyers name undisclosed.

Youre a very observant man.

Its my job.

Good, she said, giving him another look, this one impossible to

read. Would you care or something, Detective, coee or tea?

I you have coee, sure. I cant seem to shake the chill.

Oh. Its the air-conditioning. The illness raises my temperature,

so I keep it on all the time. Im araid I hardly eel it. She waved a

hand at her ace as i to cool it urther. You dont mind, do you?No, he said, stifing a shiver.

So, coee . . . she said, a bewildered look entering her eyes.

Actually, Im araid my maid doesnt come in until ten, and Im lost

without her.

No thenplease dont. Im ne.

I dont drink it mysel. How about tea? I think I can boil water.

Next thing Perry knew he was on one o the low soas, balancinga cup o something herbal and lemony on his knee; Julia Drusilla was


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sitting opposite, bony ngers tapping against a china cup that looked

almost, though not quite, as ragile as she was.

That portrait, the one above your

My ather, she said.

An impressive-looking man.

Yes. He died some years ago, along with my mother, in a tragic

accident.

Im sorry.

Dont be. I hate it when people apologize or things that have

nothing to do with them.

I wasnt taking responsibility, merely expressing

She waved his explanation away. I dont have time or niceties,

Detective. Im not a well woman.

So you said.

Did I?

Yes. But you look . . . ne.

I look like death and know it. She made a noise in the back o

her nose. You should have seen me when I was young. I was beauti-

ul once. Can you believe that?

Youre still a beautiul woman, he said, and it was true, though

the beauty had ossied.

And youre a liar, but a charming one. Though you must always

be truthul with me.I usually am.

Except when you are fattering an older woman or trying to save

someone the pain o bad news?

A little o both, said Perry.

Well, dont ever lie to me. Not ever. I have been lied to enough

in my lie, and I wont tolerate it. Her gray eyes had gone cold and

steely, her mouth set tight. Perry noticed her hands had balled intosts, as i getting ready to strike.


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12 iNherit the dead

I dont care much or lies or liars mysel.

Good, she said, the harsh glint o metal in her eyes giving way

to something a bit less threatening, though Perry hadnt missed it.

Then we understand each other.

Indeed. Perry nodded, though he allowed his stare to mimic just

a bit o her rigidity beore changing the subject. So, your daughter.

She disappeared rom where, exactly?

From her athers Montauk home. According to Norman, he has

not seen her or almost two weeks. Julia Drusilla was now up and

pacing.

Ill need the exact time o her disappearance.

You can get that rom Norman. I imagine you will want to speak

to him.

Yes. And your husband didnt call the police, didnt report your

daughter missing?

No. He called me. Which was the right thing to do. Her voice

took on strength.

Tell me more about your daughter. Anything that will help me

nd her. Perry plucked a pad and pen rom his pocket.

Well, Angelina, Angel, has been living with her ather, my ex-

husband, since our divorce.

Your husband got custody? Perry tried to keep the surprise out

o his voice. A ather getting custody was a big deal; he knew thatrom experience.

Not exactly. We determined togethermy husband and I

what was better or Angel. Ours was not one o those acrimonious

divorces. Angels happiness was all that mattered. She ran one o her

long ngers along the edge o her too-sharp jaw. Youre not married,

are you, Detective?

No.Divorced?


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Yes.

Children?

I have a daughter, he said, wondering how this had become an in-

terview, one he was on the wrong side o. She lives with her mother.

O course she does. Always the way, isnt it? Well, almost al-

ways. She stopped pacing and sagged into one o the low couches

just opposite, as i the conversation was suddenly too much or her.

Perry wondered i she was acting. Everything about her seemed

theatrical.

How old was Angel when you and your husband divorced?

Does that matter?

Maybe. Im not sure yet.

Fourteen. She was such a headstrong girl at the time. O course

she always was, but particularly then. Perhaps the divorce was some-

what to blame: the strain and

I thought you said the divorce was amicable?

But I did not say it was easy. And teenagers can be dicult.

Perry nodded, though hed give anything to have his teenage

daughter around twenty-our/seven, dicult or not.

We considered boarding school, and in retrospect I think it

would have been a better choice or her.

Whys that?

Because Norman is ar too lenient. He spoils Angel. And he hasproblems.

Such as?

She sighed. Theyre under control now.

I need to know i

Isaid they are under control. The steel was back in her eyes

and her voice.

Mrs. Drusilla. Perry spoke quietly and chose his words careully.I Im going to nd your daughter, I need to know everything.


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14 iNherit the dead

Norman would never do anything to harm Angel. Its just

that A short intake o breath. He drinks. Or did. And when

he does Well, youve never seen such a personality change. Its

quiteshe shook her headextraordinary.

Is that the reason you two

Divorced? No. It had nothing to do withthat, she said, hard. But

hes stopped drinking. At least I think so, hope so. Then more quietly,

All I was saying is that i Norman had been tougher, Angel might not

have disappeared without a word. He doesnt lay down any rules.

What about your rules?

Im araid I have little say over what Angel does. She doesnt live

here, remember?

But youre her mother.

I repeat: she does not live here. I cannot be a disciplinarian rom a

distance, and Angel . . . well, we dont see each other very oten.

When was the last time?

We have not seen each other in . . . She looked up at ceiling. I

cant say or certain but . . . probably close to a year.

A year?

Yes. Give or take a ew . . . weeks.

Thats a long time. Did you have a ght?

No. We just . . . dont get along very well. The distance is good

or us. She sighed. Id hoped Angel would grow out o her rebel-lious phaseall teenage girls have issues with their mothers, dont

they, Detective? Lord knows I gave my poor mother a terrible time.

But Angel cant seem to get past it.

So youdid argue.

In the past. But not anymore. Its hard to argue when you rarely

speak.

I see.No, I dont think you do, Detective. She leaned closer, her breath


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minty with a hint o something medicinal. Despite our disagree-

ments, I am her mother, and I love her very much. And I believe down

deep she loves me, too. One daysoon, I hopeshe will come to real-

ize howmuch I love her. She snied as i she was ghting tears, but

her eyes were perectly clear, her tone clipped. Its why I must nd

her. Whyyou must nd her. She laid a bony hand on Perrys. It was

cold and dry. I dont have much time, and I need to make things right

between us, need to . . . Her breathing became labored, a wheezing

sound, as i there was cotton wadding in her nose and throat.

Are you all right?

Y-yes. Or . . . I will be once you nd my daughter and bring her

back to me.

Bring her back? But she was never here.

She took deep breaths, a hand to her throat. All I know is that she

is gone and no one has heard rom her. Im rightened, Detective.

Perry tried to read her ace, but it was fat, expressionless. You

said that your daughter oten took o, wandered, so theres probably

no reason to suspect anything is wrongor is there?

She looked away, and when she turned back there was something

erocious in her eyes though she spoke calmly, No. Theres nothing.

Nothing at all. She continued to stare at him, not speaking.

Perry let the quiet expand between them. Something hed learned

as a cop: let the suspect ll the uncomortable void.And she did. Theres something you should know, Detective.

Angel will be twenty-one in less than two weeks, at which time she

will come into a sizable ortune.

I see. And Angel knows this?

No. At least I never told her. O course she knew she would get

money,my money, which is considerable, though she has a small, ser-

viceable income o her own. I thought it best she not spend her youthknowing she would come into tremendous wealth. I did not want


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16 iNherit the dead

money to stife her need to work, to grow as a human being. Its bet-

ter to come into money later and not know about it, dont you agree,

Detective?

Sure, said Perry. Though I wouldnt know.

Well, I do. Money can make one lazy, even corrupt.

Money can make people do all sorts of things, thought Perry.

All Angel has to do is sign some papers and the money is hers. I

would not have waited until the last minute, but the trust stipulates

that she sign on her twenty-rst birthday. Not a day earlieror later.

A ridiculous technicality, but I suppose it was put there in the event

thatshe heaved a sighthat Angel was not alive on her twenty-

rst birthday. My God, what a horrid thought.

And i she doesnt sign?

The trust remains entirely with me. We are meant to split what

remains o my athers money, which he put in trust or his heirs.

Let me get this straight. I Angel signs, she gets hal the money.

Yes.

And i she doesnt,you get it all.

Yes. She painted on a smile. I see what youre thinking, Detec-

tive. That I might want to keep all o the money or mysel.

The thought did cross my mind.

Please. I have more money than I know what to do with. And

Im dying. Her eyes locked on his. Why would I want you to ndmy daughter i I wanted to keep her money?

Perry didnt know, but he let the question sit there.

Another two or three hundred million makes no dierence to

me.

Which is it?

Which is what? She stood up and shook out her arms, then

started to pace again, her white tunic foating behind her. She lookslike a ghost, Perry thought.


23/28


Two or three hundred million?

She stopped pacing and looked at him. Im not sure. Does it re-

ally matter?

Were talking about a lot o money.

I suppose. Julia Drusilla shrugged her bony shoulders. I just

want Angel to have what is rightully hersto have the lie she was

meant to have, the reedom to do whatever she wants. Money can buy

reedom, Detective. She started pacing again, tapping her bony hand

against her thigh as she did.

I can imagine, said Perry, and almost corrected himsel: he could

not imagine. He was trying to think it through: a girl about to inherit

a ortune who disappears. Did she knowor didnt she?

Is there anyone who might benet i Angel doesnt sign those

papers?

Julia Drusilla stopped pacing again. None who I know o.

But there could be?

What do you mean?

You said none who you know o, but could there be someone out

there you dont know o?

Like who?

What about your husband?

Norman? Thats ridiculous. Hes perectly comortable. His

needs are well taken care o. Ive seen to that.Two or three hundred million dollars can ulll even more

needs.

Dont be absurd. Norman adores Angel. And he has plenty o

money. Her voice went hard then sotened, and she came closer, her

hand on his hand again.

An air-conditioned breeze grazed the back o Perrys neck, and he

shiveredor was it Julia Drusillas touch?Anyone else? he asked.


24/28

18 iNherit the dead

No. No one.

I Angel doesnt sign the papers, do you still get your hal o the

money?

She let her hand drop rom his. It may take a bit longer but . . .

yes.

That must be a relie.

Ive already told you, Detective, the money means nothing to

me. She stared at him, her gray eyes a mix o steely and needy that

made Perry uncomortable. You will nd her, wont you?

Ill need a picture. Perry glanced around the room; there wasnt

a single photograph anywhere.

Julia disappeared down a hallway then reappeared with a wallet-

size photo, a portrait, the girls ace lling it.

Does she always look like this? Perry asked.

You mean, does it look like her?

Yes.

It does.

Perry studied the photo: Angels hair looked like gold, her eyes a

startling shade o blue. There was something old-ashioned about her,

too, something that brought to mind movie stars o the 1940s and 50s,

her hooded eyes and the way the corners o her lips tipped up into a

sly Kewpie-doll smile.

Shes a beautiul girl, he said.Yes, said Julia. Very beautiul. Everybody says so. The veins in

her neck stood out.

Perry took one more look at the photo then slipped it into his

pocket, eeling as i hed accepted something orbidden.

Well then, you have everything you need, said Julia. She olded

her thin arms across her chest and glanced at the hallway, his cue to

leave.He stood up, once again noticed the Jackson Pollock painting, and


25/28


wondered why someone would buy a multimillion-dollar painting

when she was about to die.

Julia led him toward the door.

Your husbands address? he asked.

O course. She wrote it down on a piece o lavender notepaper

and placed it in his palm, her bony hand wrapping around his. Find

her, Mr. Christo. Bring my Angel back to me.

One more time, thought Perry, it was not a question.


26/28

20 iNherit the dead

You sit in the rental car you cant aord, not yet, but soon, soon, waiting

outside her ancy apartment or almost an hour now, reezing, the heat

switched o to save on gas, and fnally he comes out in that ratty trench

coat. Almost makes you laugh. I mean, Is he kidding? A private eye in a

trench coat? What a ucking clich. But this is no laughing matter.

You straighten up, concentrate on what you have to do: ollow him.

Not easy, ollowing someone who is on oot, in your car, in the city, taxis

and buses and people cutting ahead o you, and you dont dare use the

horn and bring attention to yoursel, worrying he will spot you.

Then he stops beside a parked car, umbles keys out o his pocket,

his striped scar blowing in the wind like a banner.

You pull into a bus stop, hoping a traic cop does not come by,

and you watch rom a hal block away, sipping your third black co-

ee o the morning, holding the damn Styrooam cup so tight it cracks

and coee leaks onto your hand and into your lap and youre trying

to mop it up, cursing, and keep an eye on him at the same time, and

suddenly hes driving away and you orget the damn coee, pull out

o the bus stop so ast you practically hit a taxi, the driver laying on

his horn so loud youre sure the private eye can hear so you duck,

keeping your head down but peering over the steering wheel, araid

you will lose him, telling yoursel to be calm, to breathe, to watch,

your eyes like lasers taking in the scratches on the trunk and his

license plate, which you memorize, just in case, as you creep downSecond Avenue, keeping a ew cars between you, the way people do

in the movies. But then the traic eases and hes driving ast, weav-

ing around cars, but no way youre going to lose him because this is

the most important thing you ever did in your lie so it doesnt matter

i youve got hot coee soaking your lap or that your head is aching

and your eyes itch rom too little sleep and your heart pounds rom

all the caeine because its inally happening: its not just a dreamanymore.


27/28


You tell yoursel to relax, to be cool as you watch him steer his

crummy car into the single lane thats merging into the Midtown Tunnel,

your eyes on those paint scratches and license plate, repeating the

numbers in your head until his car disappears into the tunnel and you

ollow it into the darkness with the plan in your head and murder in your

heart.


28/28

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