Inheritance (76 page)

Inouti pulled a bell cord, and a servant appeared and lit an overhead light and then a row of oil-filled lamps along the edge of the veranda. After an hour, they had gotten through only five months of Inouti's busy year, and at that point he invited Colby to have dinner with tdm. "I have no plans, and you must be hungry."

**rd appreciate it," Colby replied.

The meal was lavish and the conversation good, and Colby let himself relax and enjoy it. But when it was over, and Inouti had finished his cigar, he pushed back his chair. "Back to woric." He had to have a breakthrough. He had to solve these damn thefts or he'd go back to retirement and die of boredom.

They took their cognacs into the living room, and Colby opened his notebook. "We stopped with Madrid. Where were you after that?"

"In San Francisco with my married daughter for a month, then in Hong Kong with my son and his family. From there, in August, I went to Bangkok."

"And stayed where?"

"At the Bangkok Regency."

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"And you had meetings there."

"Oh, yes, many."

"And after that?"

'To Amsterdam. And I stayed at the Amsterdam Salinger. And, yes, I had meetings in my suite, and I suppose most of the men there knew I was then going to New York."

"And in New York?"

'The Beacon Hill. And of course I had meetings there, too, and I am sure I mentioned I was then going to Washington, D.C. And in Washington—this was in October—^I stayed at another Beacon Hill; it had just opened."

Colby was writing, trying to keep up with Inouti's rapid speech. But his hand suddenly stopped. "The Beacon Hill," he murmured.

"Yes. They are by far the most civilized hotels I know. Have you been to any of them?"

"Not yet. Let's go on: October to now."

"I was here until February, when I was in Geneva, at the Geneva Marquis, and then I went to Rome and stayed with friends until I went to London for Easter with my fanoily. And that is a whole year of my life." ^ "Who'd you travel with?" Colby asked. ^ "Ah, Mr. Colby, that is private." Colby tried to insist, for the sake of a complete investigation, but he was not pushing as hard as he might have been. Because behind his businesslike frown and matter-of-fact voice, Sam Colby was churning with excitement. He had the breakthrough he'd been looking for. He'd bet his bottom dollar he'd found the thread that connected six different robberies in six different cities on two continents and the island of Hawaii.

He was wrong. When he returned to New York and reread his notes he realized only five of the six had something in common. Serrano didn't fit the pattern. So he had to talk to him again. This time Paul wanted to go along.

"No, no, no," Colby told him. "I've told you before, I'll tell you again, that's no way to run an interview. Who's gonna give me straight answers with a camera pointed at his head, grinding away?"

"They don't grind," Paul said patiendy. "And Britt Farley

Judith Michael

talked straight; most of the time he forgot the cameraman was there. When he wanted him gone, we sent him away. Sam, I can't make a film about you if I can't film you at woiic."

"You've been doing that. In my office, talking to insurance people and forgery experts and investigators in Europe, going through apartments that were robbed—and we never would have gotten permission for that if you hadn't known a couple of the victims. Anyway, you've got all that on film. And a million hours of me talking about my fife and how I work—"

"Only thirty or forty hours so far," Paul said. "And it's good, ail of it, but it would be a lot better if there were some tension. What can make this film unique is an investigation in progress. Not a reenactment; audiences respond to the drama of the real thing. Sam, let me try it. If it doesn't woric, I won't ask again; I'll find other ways to do it."

Colby wavered. He knew he was an expert interviewer, and the thought of preserving that on film for generations to come was irresistible. *Two conditions," he said. "You leave if Serrano wants you gone. And you don't tell a living soul what you hear in tfie interview. Not your wife, not your mother, not even your barber. I want your solemn promise.'*

"You have it. You can trust me, Sam; you know that."

"I think it. I never know anything until I have a stack of proof. Okay. Acapulco, tomorrow morning. The flight's at eight-thirty."

Carios Serrano's apartment seemed to float above the bustling streets and crowded beaches of Acapulco: the walls were glass, and from a deep couch all Paul could see was the ocean merging with the cloudless sky of a clear April morning. Soaring gulls and white sails broke the blue vista beyond the windows; inside, the walls were a riot of color from oil paintings and shelves of ancient Peruvian pottery. One wall was conspicuously bare. "I keep it that way," Serrano said, "to remind me that I have been robbed once and therefore I must be more vigilant."

"Good," Colby nodded. "Well, now, I appreciate your seeing me again; you've been very patient, but I have a few more questions, and I'd like to review some of the answers you gave me before. I'm sorry if that inconveniences you."

"No, no. It is for my paintings, after all. Anything you wish."

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Flipping through his notebook, Colby wrote the April date at the top of a fresh page. "I want to go over your schedule again for the year preceding the theft: the places you went, the people you saw, your houseguests here."

"You know the people I saw; we talked about them."

"Fve already apologized for some repetition; I think it's necessary."

In that case." Serrano opened a folder on a nearby table— You see, inspector, I am prepared for you"—and took from it a stack of handwritten notes. "In fact, I remembered some things I had forgotten. You wish to start—when?"

"You were robbed a year ago last November. Start at the beginning of that year."

The cameraman ah^ady had filmed the huge room, the view, the art collection in the other twelve rooms of the apartment; now, standing discreetly in a far comer, he focused on Serrano. Paul made occasional notes on lighting, sound level, questions that showed Colby's expertise, and movements of his body and hands, even his head, that indicated he was especially interested in something. He was especially interested in meetings in hotels; Paul made a note to ask him about it later.

"And in Aspen, where did you stay?" Colby asked.

"I rented a home on Red Mountain, but that is not significant; I had no meetings there. Aspen was relaxation."

"For two months."

"The skiing in Aspen is very good. I also bought two paintings, at Joanne Lyon's excellent gallery, so there was a bit of business, too. But no meetings."

"All right; what about the sunmier?"

Serrano listed his travels for the sununer: diey were all with friends. "In September I was in Chicago to meet with cattle and feed brokers. That was—^"

"You didn't mention Chicago last time we talked."

"That was one of the things I forgot. I stayed there at the Beacon Hill and had two meetings in a conference room in the hotel."

"How long were you there?"

"About five days."

"And then?"

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Judith Michael

Serrano went on talking, but Paul was studying Colby's face. It had changed somehow; he was no longer as interested as he had been. Something had given him what he wanted. Paul thought back. Aspen. Joanne Lyon's gallery. Friends' houses in Switzerland and Italy. Chicago. A meeting of cattle and feed brokers at the Beacon Hill.

"What was it?" he asked on the plane returning to New York.

Colby shook his head. "Can't tell you yet." And he opened his notebook, for once discouraging further conversation.

Because he had to think, he had to plan. He had to figure out how to weave a net with the beautiftil fact that six robbery victims had one thing in common: they all had stayed at a Beacon Hill hotel within a few months of the time their houses were robbed.

It was almost summer before Ginny got her financing organized and completed the purchase of two percent of the shares of Salinger Hotels Incorporated. It was all done in her name. Later she would sell the shares to Laura for the money she was loaning her, but first she wanted everything in order. So she was the one who appeared at the June board meeting of the corporation to have her purchase approved. There was not even a debate; the Starrett name was known, and the vote was unanimous.

"Good to have you,'* Cole Hatton said. They had known each other casually for a long time.

"You'll be a strong addition to our board," Felix said formally. He had known Wylie Starrett years before, and Wylie always believed in big business getting bigger, so Felix assume Ginny would be the same, since women got whatever business sense they had from their husbands, even if they later divorced them. Ginny would be his ally in his struggle to keep his empire intact, rather than selling off parts of it during brief periods of difficulty.

"It's only a few difficulties," he told Ginny when they had coffee after the meeting. "Hardly a crisis. Occupancy is down, but we all go through cycles in this business. Of course we'd like to have a larger cushion of cash, but that also goes through cycles. We're building two new hotels, after all, so costs are up, but that's nothing new, either."

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**But I gather some of the board wants to sell off a few hotels/* Ginny said, as if Hatton and the man who had sold her his shares had not told her all there was to know.

"A few of them," Felix said shortly, dismissing it. "It won*t happen."

He changed the subject. There was no reason to tell her about his other difficulties: the sly bastard who'd wormed his way into the family; and Leni, in New York most of the time now, and barely civil to him when she was home: almost a stranger. She was as serene and coolly elegant as ever, but he felt he had hold of her by the thinnest of tlveads. Her sense of duty, her need for security, her admiration for him as a powerful businessman all seemed to have eroded; it was as if the two of them had no connection at all anymore.

But he did not press her, because he was afraid of breaking diat thin thread. Even a stranger was better than no one, and she seemed willing to stay on as his wife. He could always find a woman when he needed one; that wasn't the issue. Sleeping with Leni was far less important than knowing she was his wife, and knowing the world knew.

"I've bought tickets to the Tanglewood Ball next month," he told her at dinner in June. They were in Allison's and Ben's Beacon Hill house, with Asa and Carol, and Thomas and Barbara Janssen; they never ate alone anymore. "We'll drive up that morning and see some of the country. I haven't had a day off in a long time."

"I don't think I'll be free," Leni said quietly. "And we've done it so many times . . . Allison, you and Ben should go; it's a lovely affair."

"Maybe we will," Allison said. "It will be good for Judd's sister or brother to get some culture right from the beginning."

"Allison!" Leni exclaimed, and Alhson and Ben exchanged a smile the length of the table. "When did you find out?"

*This morning."

"When are you due? Oh, how wonderful for you both. And for Judd, though he probably won't think so at first. I'm so happy for you; isn't it lovely, so many good things happen-mg . . .

Felix said nothing, letting the others talk, covertly watching Ben with a seething rage. Judd Gardner's son, sitting in

Judith Michael

Owen's place, filling Owen's house with children, planning— Felix was sure of it—to take over the company and grab Owen's place there, too. The smug bastard, the conniving son of a bitch—he'd even made friends with Thomas Janssen and Cole Hatton—even Asa! And there was nothing Felix could do about it . . . nothing, nothing, nothing. At least not now. He hadn't given up; he never gave up when the stakes were high enough; he'd get rid of the fucking bastard. In spite of himself, even knowing how much control he would need in the next months with his board, getting rid of Ben Gardner was becoming the goal that pushed others aside.

He brooded about it even in the car going home. Asa drove, talking now and then to Carol, beside him, while Felix and Leni sat in the back seat, not touching.

"I want you at that ball in Tanglewood," he said when they stood at their front door in the warm night. "A number of people have asked about your absences; I can't ignore them, and I care what they think."

"And what do they think?" Leni asked.

'That we're separating. Some such nonsense."

"But we're never together, Felix. How can it be nonsenseT'

"You're my wife. I've always given you great freedom because it suited you— '*

"—and you."

"It suited both of us," he said.

"It suited you to ignore me until you needed me, because you don't want intimacy. You only want the form of things. It's so much easier than dealing with real people and real emotions."

"Bullshit. I knew what I wanted: I wanted you. You were the one who turned away, standoffish all your life, like your whole family."

Leni put her key in the door, but he put his hand over hers, stopping her. He felt her cringe from his touch, and then the rage that was just below the surface exploded. "You're not walking away from me! You'll do what I say! I ask damn little of you, but I want you at that affair in Tanglewood and you'll tell me, now, that you'll be there."

Panic swept through Leni. She could not bear his touch; she could not bear having him this close. But I'm married to him,

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she thought incoherently; as long as I am . . . why shouldn*t he think . . . ?

Why am I still here? I have a home in New York, and good firiends there; I have Allison and her family, and Thomas and Barbara, and Wes . . .

But those were all known; they were part of her life. Everything else was unknown and frightening: divorce, being single, no longer being a wife. Losing a place and status that society recognized, losing the boundaries that kept life from being formless and open-ended.

Vm too old for that, she thought.