Death Benefits (39 page)

Walker watched Mary turn and glance over the seat at him, then begin to back up. She swung the car around, then pulled forward so it was headed out toward Main Street, stopped, and slid over to sit in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead through the windshield.

Stillman stared at her thoughtfully, shrugged, and said, “See you later.” He watched while Walker got in behind the wheel, made the corner, and headed down the quiet street toward the temporary bridge out of town.

It was nine hours before Stillman turned up at Mary’s hotel room. He knocked loudly, and when Walker came to the door in a hotel bathrobe, he handed him several sheets of paper stapled at the corner. Walker stared at each page, looking at the long column of family names and addresses. When he had finished, he looked at Stillman. “Does this do anything for you?”

Stillman shook his head. “I faxed the list to McClaren’s. It doesn’t do anything for the personnel office, either. None of the surnames from Coulter match an employee. If there is an inside person, we can’t get him the easy way.”

Walker frowned. “But if there is, it’s got to be possible to find out who it is. They registered everything with the state: births, deaths, marriages, divorces.” He glanced over at Mary. “If there is an inside person, he’s got to be a relative.”

Mary propped herself up on an elbow on the bed and said, “Families do have two sides. The person wouldn’t necessarily have the same surname. It wouldn’t take much to trace the genealogies back one more generation and see if there are any cousins Walker knows.” She gave a half-smile. “You have to buy me a new laptop anyway, Max. I’m willing to get it in Concord and spend a few days on this.”

An hour later they were on the road to Concord. By late afternoon, Walker, Stillman, and Casey were sitting at a long wooden table in the Health and Welfare Building on Hazen Drive, staring at the first set of names that their search of the New Hampshire archives had produced. They worked for two days after that, looking at birth records, digging up marriage certificates, and constructing family trees. At the end of the third day, Walker raised his eyes from the latest list of names and said quietly, “I know who it is.”

Walker was at his desk in the cubicle when he heard the elevator’s doors hum and slide open. He listened to the
pock-pock-pock
of high heels coming down the open aisle of the bay, then saw Maureen Cardarelli in a gray business suit with a short skirt move past the entrance to his cubicle. Her eyes slid in his direction, then forward, then did an exaggerated double take. She stopped and walked to the doorway warily. “Walker?”

“Accept no substitutes,” he said.

“You’re here?”

“I think we just said that,” he said. “How have you been?”

She ignored his question. “I . . .  can’t believe it. You’re still in analysis?”

He knitted his brows and shrugged.

“You’re supposed to be . . . we heard you were out of here,” she said. “You were going to be one of the myriad vice presidents that nobody ever sees, who fly around the world writing policies for sultans’ jewelry collections and things.” Walker could hear a tiny tinge of malice in her voice, a small but growing hope that what she said was not true.

Walker shrugged again. “I just got back, and you’re the first one I’ve seen.”

Her face seemed to flatten. “Well, I hope I haven’t ruined a surprise or something.” Now she was afraid it was true.

Walker said, “I doubt it, but if you did, I’ll act surprised and cover for you.”

She looked uncomfortable. He had never seen her at a loss for words before. She shuffled her feet as though they were trying to step off without her. “Well, welcome home,” she said. “I’d better go check my voice mail.” She gave him a warm, studied smile that she sensed was so good that it almost rescued her from embarrassment, then turned and disappeared. He heard the
pock-pock-pock
receding down the aisle.

The next one was Kennedy. His head appeared in the doorway, and Walker sensed that Cardarelli must have told him. “Hey!” he said in surprise. “You’re back.”

“I guess so,” said Walker.

“Boy, you really missed a lot around here,” said Kennedy.

“Not as much as you did.”

“Really?” His eyes shifted to look up the aisle, then down it. He seemed to see something that troubled him. “Got to hear all about it, but we’ll have to talk later. I’ve got a pile of stuff on my—”

Walker interrupted. “We’re not going to be able to talk later, so I’ve got to ask you this now. Why Ellen Snyder?”

Kennedy stood absolutely still, his eyes on Walker. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean, the rest of it makes sense. I’ve thought about it so much that it’s not even surprising anymore. It was your family, your town. You probably grew up knowing you were going to get inside some company and do something like this. But you knew Ellen. She liked you, was nice to you. Why not somebody you’d never met, never seen, in some other part of the company?”

Kennedy’s eyes were bright and intense, never moving from Walker’s. His mouth slowly curled up in a hint of amusement. He seemed to lean forward slightly, coming closer. His lips began to move in an almost unvoiced whisper, so Walker had to read them. “That’s . . . how . . .  it’s . . .  done.”

For this moment, it seemed to Walker that the rest of the world had been cleared of people, that he and Kennedy were the only ones. The look on Kennedy’s face was unspeakable, not the look of conscious evil, but a look of something that wasn’t exactly human. The eyes were watching him, not with cruelty but with an undistracted interest that was completely devoid of empathy, like an animal looking at something that was part of its diet.

Walker was jolted out of his paralysis by sudden, quick footsteps, so near that he knew what the noise had to be. The voice belonged to Special Agent Nancy Atkins. “William Kennedy.” Walker couldn’t see her from his desk, but from the angle of Kennedy’s eyes, he knew she was flashing a badge, or something. Kennedy’s head turned back toward Walker. He stood absolutely still and stared into Walker’s eyes as Nancy Atkins said, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” Kennedy kept staring at Walker while his hands were being tugged around behind him by the other agents and the handcuffs put on. “You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning.”

Walker closed his eyes, not wanting even to hear, but her voice reached back to him all the way from the elevator. “If you cannot afford an attorney . . . .” He heard the
ding,
then the doors opening. After a few seconds, they closed.

Walker opened his desk drawer. The report he had written a month ago was here, a copy that Joyce must have left when it was distributed. He set it on his desk and stood up.

Stillman’s shape blocked the doorway for a second, then moved aside. As Walker stepped out, Mary stood before him with her arms folded. “Who’s the babe, Walker?”

“Babe?” He hesitated and looked around. “Oh. Maureen Cardarelli. She works in another section.”

“She seems to be working your section. Tell me about her.”

Walker considered for a moment. “She’s a woman who . . .  a woman who, if she thought I was in danger, would probably get into her car. She wouldn’t necessarily drive toward me.”

Stillman said to Mary, “He means he’s yours to torment at your leisure as you see fit.”

“Oh?” said Mary. “You know these things?”

Walker shrugged. “Kind of unlikely, I know, but he does.”

Stillman put one hand on Walker’s shoulder and the other on Mary’s and they set off down the aisle of the bay. “I heard Cardarelli blowing the surprise McClaren had planned for you. Too bad.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “You mean that stuff about sultans? That was for real?”

“No, that part was a load of crap,” said Stillman. “Walker couldn’t sell life insurance to a man being eaten by a crocodile. But they’ll take care of him.” Stillman looked at Walker. “What do you think? Want to go up to the twelfth floor right now?”

“No,” said Walker. “I want to go to Joyce Hazelton’s office and pick up the paychecks that have been piling up for me. Then, I think the three of us should take a cab to the Clift Hotel.”

“What for?”

“It’s my turn to buy lunch. And drinks. The big old-fashioned kind. We’ll need you to search the memories of your youth and draw a blueprint for the bartender. Then you get another cab.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll have to search the memories of your youth for that, too,” Mary snapped.

“I didn’t mean that,” said Stillman. “I meant after that. After your two paychecks are spent.”

“Then I’ll decide what to do next.” He saw Stillman studying him. “Don’t you remember? You set me free.”

Walker was moving toward Joyce Hazelton’s office, but Stillman hit the button for the elevator. “Joyce isn’t in there. She’s waiting for me in my car.” The doors opened and he stepped into the elevator. “We’ll have to start with the drinks. It’s not lunchtime yet.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

T
HOMAS
P
ERRY
won an Edgar for
The Butcher’s Boy,
and
Metzger’s Dog
was a
New York Times
Notable Book of the Year. His other books include
The Face-Changers, Shadow Woman, Dance for the Dead,
and
Vanishing Act,
chosen as one of the 100 Favorite Mysteries of the Century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. He lives in Southern California with his wife and their two daughters.

ALSO BY THOMAS PERRY

The Butcher’s Boy

Metzger’s Dog

Big Fish

Island

Sleeping Dogs

Vanishing Act

Dance for the Dead

Shadow Woman

The Face-Changers

Blood Money

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2001 by Thomas Perry

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.

R
ANDOM
H
OUSE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Perry, Thomas.

Death benefits / Thomas Perry.

p.     cm.

1. Insurance investigators—Fiction. 2. San Francisco (Calif.)—Fiction. 3. New Hampshire—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3566.E718 D43 2001

813’.54—dc21     00-041476

Random House website address:
www.atrandom.com

eISBN: 978-0-375-50677-2

v3.0