Closer Than You Think (36 page)

‘Nothing,’ Deacon said. ‘Not even a parking ticket. For father, son or grandson.’

‘Three generations of squeaky-clean lawyers. What’s this world coming to?’

They cut the conversation off when they entered the attorney’s office, stopping at a receptionist’s desk. ‘Special Agent Novak and Detective Bishop here to see Mr Henson Senior about the O’Bannion estate,’ Deacon said, both of them presenting their badges.

The receptionist typed their badge numbers into her computer. For a non-litigating attorney, Deacon thought, Henson kept careful records. ‘If you’d like to sit down,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell Mr Henson that you are here.’

Deacon eyed the waiting room chairs, padded and soft. Only the best for Henson’s clientele. ‘They look too comfortable,’ he muttered to Bishop. ‘If I sit down, I’ll fall asleep.’

‘I know.’ Bishop swallowed a yawn. ‘Me too.’ But she sat anyway, groaning softly. ‘They’re even more comfortable than they look. Don’t sit down, Novak. It’s a trap.’

The woman behind the desk chuckled. ‘Would you detectives like some coffee?’

‘That would be really nice, thank you,’ Bishop said.

The receptionist disappeared for a few minutes, returning with their coffee. ‘Mr Henson’s finished his call. He’ll see you now.’

Herbert Henson Senior was seated behind a massive oak desk. He was a tall, spare man with a few curling wisps of gray hair remaining on his otherwise bald head. He wore old-fashioned spectacles and by every outward appearance was a simple country lawyer. But Deacon knew that a man could never hold on to his caliber of clientele without being a shark.

Henson looked them up and down, especially Deacon, who’d removed his shades. The lawyer looked him right in the eye but didn’t flinch. He didn’t react at all.

He’s either color blind or one hell of a bluffer
.

‘Sit down,’ Henson said. ‘Please.’ When they had, he steepled his arthritic fingers on his desk. ‘My office administrator tells me you have questions about the O’Bannion estate. Surely you understand that I’m bound by attorney–client privilege.’

‘Even when your client is deceased?’ Bishop asked.

Sadness flitted across his face. ‘Barbara O’Bannion may be deceased, but her heirs are still my clients. Ask your questions. I’ll answer as best I can.’

‘Have you seen the news, Mr Henson?’ Deacon asked.

‘I did. That house of Barbara’s was on the front page, paraded through every news outlet on the television, and the Internet too. I saw the photographs of that hotel, as well. I expected you, Agent Novak.’ He looked at Bishop. ‘Not you, ma’am, because you haven’t attracted the media’s attention like Agent Novak has.’

‘I never do,’ Bishop said pleasantly. ‘If you saw the pictures of the hotel, you also know that a man was shot there last night.’

‘The bellman, yes. Terrible.’

‘Did you know that Barbara’s granddaughter was the sniper’s target?’ Deacon asked.

Henson went completely still. ‘Faith? Or Audrey?’

‘Who’s Audrey?’ Bishop asked.

Henson’s jaw clenched, then relaxed. ‘Faith, then. Why? How do you know?’

‘I know because I pushed her out of the way,’ Deacon said. They’d come back to Audrey later. ‘She would have been dead.’

‘But . . . I assumed the shooting was part of a manhunt to find the person who abducted that young girl from King’s College.’ Folded tightly on the desk, Henson’s hands trembled.

‘No. Faith was the target. The why revolves around her inheritance.’

‘That house,’ Henson said flatly. ‘Because her name is on the deed.’

‘Her old name,’ Bishop told him. ‘She changed it before leaving Miami.’

‘Back to Sullivan,’ Henson said. ‘It’s about time. Barbara did not like Faith’s ex-husband.’

‘No, sir,’ Bishop said. ‘She changed it to Corcoran. And she didn’t change it because she was divorced. She was being stalked.’

Henson straightened in his chair. ‘Faith? Stalked? By whom?’

‘By the man who cut her throat four years ago,’ Deacon said. ‘She decided to come to Cincinnati after five attempts were made on her life.’ That he could not say for sure that the same man who’d stalked her was responsible for the latest attempts really pissed him off. ‘The first attempt was three days after she returned from the reading of her grandmother’s will.’

Henson paled. ‘Five times in one month?’

‘Plus last night’s shooting makes six,’ Deacon said. Then he waited.

Henson’s jaw tensed. ‘What is in that house?’ he demanded, enunciating every word.

‘We haven’t released that information yet,’ Deacon said. ‘But as bad as you’re thinking? It’s a whole lot worse.’

‘Someone is trying to kill her over that damn house,’ Henson spat. ‘Someone who knew she’d inherited it before I had the deed changed over. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘Tell us about the will, sir,’ Bishop said. ‘Who knew the contents, and when?’

‘We know Jordan got the townhouse, if that helps you deal with attorney–client privilege,’ Deacon said when Henson hesitated. ‘Faith got the house in Mount Carmel plus the land. Jeremy didn’t get anything.’

‘Who’s Audrey?’ Bishop asked again.

‘Audrey is Jeremy’s daughter,’ Henson said. ‘His biological daughter. He has two stepsons from his ex-wife’s previous marriage. He adopted them. Barbara met them only a few times. She never met Audrey.’

‘Yet you thought we’d come to you about her,’ Deacon said.

Henson lifted a shoulder. ‘She’s Barbara’s granddaughter too. And if you Google her, you’ll find that Audrey gets herself arrested frequently. She’s something of a serial protester. There are a lot of people in the world who’d like to take a shot at her. Faith is a model of good manners in comparison.’

‘Have you known Dr Corcoran long?’ Deacon asked.

Henson blinked for a moment. ‘I’m so used to knowing her as Faith Frye or Sullivan. I knew of her through Barbara. I only met her a month ago when I read Barbara’s will. I don’t suppose it would hurt to tell you that none of Jeremy’s children inherited.’

‘Did they know about Faith getting the house?’

‘I didn’t tell them. I don’t suppose Jordan did either. The only other person who knew the contents of the will was my secretary, Mrs Lowell, and she’s been with me for nearly forty years. Her integrity is unimpeachable.’

‘What about couriers, copy room attendants?’ Bishop pressed.

‘No, Detective Bishop. No one.’

Bishop pushed on. ‘Cleaning people, plumbers, locksmiths, the cable company, computer techs, temps when your secretary goes on vacation? You do give her vacation, don’t you, sir?’

‘Of course I do, but my wife and I take vacation at the same time. I close the office. We’ve done so for forty years. No one has had access to our files,’ he insisted, but then faltered. ‘Computer techs maybe. We had a new system installed three years ago. Until then Mrs Lowell stored everything on external hard drives that we kept locked up. It’s conceivable that the consultant we brought in saw a file or two while training us on the system.’

‘It’s conceivable that he burned entire copies of your external hard drives,’ Deacon said and watched Henson frown. ‘Who was the consultant?’

‘Tierney Phillips. He’s my grandson’s best friend. I’ve known Tierney since he was born.’ Henson exhaled, seeming to have remembered something. ‘But even if he did steal files – which I do not believe he did – it doesn’t matter. Barbara’s will pre-dated our first office computer. It had been typed on a typewriter with carbon paper. After we got our new system, we scanned a number of the old documents in. Tierney wouldn’t have had access to it.’

‘Where were the old files kept?’ Deacon asked.

‘In our basement. We have a vault. I have the combination. Only me.’

A man careful enough to record the badge numbers of visiting detectives had a failsafe, Deacon thought. Someone else had access to that combination. ‘Okay, so Jordan knew what was in the will, as did Faith. Jeremy and his children knew they weren’t in the will. If Faith were to die, what happens to the house?’

‘That I’m not at liberty to tell you. I’m sorry.’

‘Then Jordan gets it,’ Bishop said reasonably. ‘He’s your only other client who’s an heir.’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Detective,’ Henson snapped. ‘And don’t guess. I do not have authority to give you that information.’

Deacon managed to keep his tone pleasant, even though he was frustrated as hell. Whoever was next in line for the house had motive. ‘Who’s had access to the house in recent years?’

‘Well, I suppose I have. When Barbara moved to the city to live with Jordan, she had the locks changed and gave me the key. I gave that key to Faith when I read her section of the will.’

‘The lock had been changed,’ Deacon said quietly.

Henson’s jaw tightened. ‘Which is why Faith called to tell me the key didn’t fit. Dammit. Well, at least you have a time frame of reference. The lock was intact three months ago.’

Deacon hid his surprise.
It couldn’t have been
. The killer they sought had been in that basement far longer than three months. ‘Why three months ago?’

‘Because that’s the last time the house was inspected by Maguire and Sons. They make sure the roof isn’t leaking, that the foundation is secure. Things like that.’

‘Do they check inside the house as well?’ Deacon asked, and Henson nodded.

‘Twice a year, top to bottom. Additionally, after heavy flooding they check the basement. The house is on high ground, but Barbara was taking no chances with it.’

No way in hell had that been happening. Unless Maguire and/or his sons were rapists and murderers. ‘Twice a year, every year, since when?’

‘Maguire’s had the contract for ten years. But I’ve had contractors doing semi-annual maintenance ever since Tobias died and Barbara moved to the city.’ Henson frowned. ‘Why?’

Ten years ago was when Tanaka thought the windows and the door in the basement had been covered and hidden. ‘Who schedules Maguire’s visits?’ Deacon asked.

‘We do. Why?’

‘And the key?’ Bishop asked. ‘Do they have their own key?’

‘Of course not.’ Henson’s lips thinned. ‘My grandson meets them out there, then waits for them to finish. He’s not here at the moment. I’ll have him contact you the moment he arrives.
Why?
’ he demanded.

‘We can’t wait that long, however long that is,’ Deacon said. ‘Where is he now?’

Henson’s cheeks darkened to a blotchy red. ‘He is with a client, Special Agent Novak. My grandson’s integrity is also unimpeachable.’

Deacon leaned back in his chair, a subtle cue for Bishop to grab the baton. She did so smoothly, just one of the things he appreciated about working with her.

‘I’m sure it is, Mr Henson,’ she said. ‘But we have a serious problem here. That thing that Agent Novak said was far worse than your worst imagining? It’s going on in the basement and has been for a lot longer than three months. We need to talk to your grandson. If he or Maguire noticed anything while in that basement, we need to know.’

Henson grew very still. ‘I said I would have him contact you when he returns. That’s the best I can do for you at the moment.’

‘Can we have his cell number?’ she asked. ‘We’d be happy to contact him ourselves.’

‘No. He is with a client and is not to be disturbed. You may reach him here, on his office line. He checks his messages frequently. Our cell phones are for our personal use, therefore we keep that information private.’

Deacon didn’t hide his irritation. ‘We have a missing young woman. Every moment we don’t talk to your son is another moment she comes closer to death. You don’t want that stain on your conscience. Or on your sterling reputation.’

Henson’s jaw clenched. ‘I will call him on his cell phone and ask him to call you back.’

Deacon leaned forward, far enough that Henson caught the movement. ‘Please make the call now. A young woman’s life could hang in the balance.’

Henson hit the button on his intercom. ‘Mrs Lowell, can you call my grandson’s cell phone?’ He released the intercom and looked at Deacon.

‘Mr Henson,’ Mrs Lowell said through the intercom, ‘I got his voicemail.’

‘Leave him a message. Tell him to call me ASAP, that it is urgent.’ Henson cut off the intercom, smiling thinly. ‘Now, if there is nothing else, I have an appointment waiting.’

Deacon didn’t budge, nor did Bishop. ‘There is still much you can do for us,’ Deacon said. ‘Like telling us when was the last time
you
were at the O’Bannion house.’

Henson’s eyebrows shot up over his spectacles. ‘Am I a suspect?’

‘Can you answer the question, please?’ Deacon countered.

Henson leaned back in his chair, his pleasant facade disintegrating, revealing the iron core beneath.
This
was the man who’d remained a trusted adviser to the wealthy for more than sixty years. ‘Twenty-three years ago,’ he answered curtly.

‘At Tobias’s funeral?’ Deacon asked. ‘Or at Margaret Sullivan’s?’

‘Margaret’s, although I attended Tobias’s as well.’

‘You’d known them that long?’ Deacon asked.

‘Yes. Anything else?’

‘Yes.’ Deacon was becoming both annoyed and suspicious at Henson’s hurry. ‘I must say I’m a little surprised that an attorney of your stature would take care of such small details as home maintenance for your clients.’

‘I don’t. I did it for Barbara because we were friends. I’d known both Tobias and Barbara since the 1940s. Tobias was the best friend of my older brother. My wife and Barbara were schoolmates. We were Joy’s godparents.’

‘Who was Joy?’ Bishop asked.

‘Joy was Barbara’s firstborn. She died at fifteen. Leukemia.’

Deacon frowned. ‘I thought Jordan was the one who had cancer, when he was a teenager.’

Henson tilted his head appraisingly. ‘He was also stricken. How did you know that?’

‘Faith told me.’

‘Interesting. I suppose she would have been old enough to know what was going on at the time,’ Henson mused.

‘The O’Bannions had two children to develop cancer?’ Bishop asked.

Henson nodded. ‘The family had more than their share of heartache. At any rate, Barbara and I go back decades. That’s why I handled the details of the house for her.’