Inheritance (88 page)

"I'm not doing this one," Paul said. Thafs what she called me about. "I wrote you a note on this two weeks ago; I told you I was using a different story and I'd tell you about it as soon as I knew what it was."

"A note? I never got it. Oh, wait, maybe I did. I don't know; it didn't matter then. It only matters now. This thing has broken in the last five days, and that's what matters. Listen, this is the film we want: Colby's investigation of six thefts that came from the Beacon Hill hotels. God, the ratings! Who could of guessed, when you started—^?"

"I am not doing a film on the Beacon Hill hotels," Paul said. "Sam and I miked about this some time ago; it may not even be the hotels. He isn't sure; nobody is. I want to use an investigation that's complete—he'll take us through the whole thing—so I don't have to worry about finding out at the last minute that all my footage is on a dead-end investigation. I'll get this to you as soon as I can— *'

Judith Michael

"I don't want whatever 'this' is. I want the film I want. I don't know what your real reason is for not doing it, but we're paying for a good part of this film and, damn it, we have a right to tell you how to do it."

"No one has that right. Is that clear? Do you think funding this film made you its producer or censor? This was my film from the first, and I make it the way I decide or I don't make it at all. At least not for you."

"Then goddam it, you don't make it for us. I don't like your attitude, Paul. The trouble with you rich playboys is you aren't hungry enough: you don't lose enough if you fail. This is just a hobby for you so you think you don't have to take orders. Well, this is one order you'll take. If you don't deliver this film, on time, the way we want it, we'll never show any of your stuff on this networic again, much less give you any money, for Christ's sake. Will that make you think a little bit?"

"I don't have to. I don't give in to blackmail."

"That's a mean word; don't use it, Paul. This is a negotiation. You just shoot the film the way you've been doing, then you add footage on the hotels and the Fairchild gal, and her gang, if she's got one, that's pulling off the thefts—"

"No," said Paul in disgust. "And that's final."

He hung up, then immediately picked up the telephone to call Laura. But she was not in her office; her secretary would say only that she was in a meeting and would not be back that day. "Tell her Paul Janssen called," he said. *Tell her I'm coming home."

At the same moment that Paul hung up. Clay stopped at a newsstand on Perea Street, in the center of Mexico City, and bought a copy of the New York Daily News, to read about home. He sat in a cafe, ordered coffee, and opened the paper. And on the second page he found himself staring at a large picture of Laura. Rapidly, he read the story beneath it. She was suspected of being a thief. And her hotels, and her position with them, were in jeopardy.

He stared at it, rereading it all that day and evening. He didn't believe it. But it was there, in front of him: son of a bitch, it was true.

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He brooded over it. Something else dumped on him. He was miserable enough at having to leave New York; he'd been gone less than two weeks, and already he couldn't stand it; he was going crazy, knowing that Laura didn't love him anymore and that he'd probably never see her again. Christ, he thought, how did they put it all together? He'd been so sure tfiey wouldn't: he'd never gone to the same city twice; he'd never left a fingerprint or anything that would connect one job to the others; he'd always sold the stuff to one broker who sold them to his clients, and the broker didn't even know his name or anything about the Beacon Hill hotels, so he couldn't give it away. He'd had it all figured out; it was absolutely brilliant. So how the fiick had they gotten to the hotels?

And Laura. Blaming it on Laura. Clay sat in the library at the University of Mexico City, reading back issues of the New York Daily News. He was barely mentioned. Goddam it, didn't they think he was clever enough to think it up? Why did they think it was Laura? Nobody ever gave him credit; first it was Ben who was the smart one, and then it was Laura. Shit, I was the one who worked out the robbery at the Cape; I'm the one who's been lifting high-priced art for three years, with nobody being the wiser; everything was perfect until Laura found that fucking necklace, and now this other thing— Christ, it couldn't have come at a worse time. . . .

Oh, Clay, you're always thinking of yourself. Laura's voice was so clear in his head he panicked and looked around the hushed room to see where she was. Just once couldn't you think about somebody else? We all have problems, you know; you're not the only one . . .

She'd said that when he was complaining about having to share a secretary with the part-time accountant Laura had hired. He hadn't wanted to share anything; he was vice president for maintenance and quality control, and he deserved his own private secretary. I'll get you one when I can; I'm trying to keep the payroll down. I'm sure you can understand that.

Sure, he'd said, and kissed her, because he didn't want her mad at him. And that night he'd brought her flowers and a bottle of wine and they'd cooked dinner together at her place, and everything was fine; she still loved him.

But now she wouldn't. He'd gotten her in a hell of a mess,

Judith Michael

and she'd never love him again. She'd think he never thought of anybody but himself.

He left the library and went to a bar on Madero Street. The streets were even more crowded than in New York, but it didn't make him feel at home; everybody talked in Spanish, and he was an outsider. He brooded over a scotch and thought about himself. He had to: if he didn't, who would? Nobody cared about him.

Laura cared about him. For a long time. But no more.

He couldn't ever go back. There was no place for him anymore; no job, no sister, nobody who cared about him.

Well, shit, if he couldn't go back, why not tell them he'd done those jobs, and then they wouldn't blame Laura? What difference did it make to him? He was safe here; nobody knew where he was; he could call them up and tell them, and that would be the end of it. It wouldn't even stop him from doing more jobs when he needed money and excitement.

He finished his drink. The trouble with that was, he'd need some proof or they might think he was lying to protect his sister. Well, he had proof; he could send it to them. He wouldn't phone them; he'd write to this guy, Sam Colby, and tell him the whole story, and send one of the manila envelopes he'd taken from his file cabinet when he fled his q)artment. There were the two original Diirer prints inside that he'd taken from the Laughtons because he liked them, not because his broker had wanted them for somebody. And there were also six keys, copies made from wax impressions he'd taken in the rooms of Beacon Hill guests while they were out for the evening. Each was labeled: Guameri, Laughton, Farley, Serrano. . . . How was that for proof? Perfect, that's how it was. He'd send them to Colby. He could do that.

He could do that for Laura. Then she couldn't say he was only thinking about himself.

"The same," he said to the bartender, and in a minute another scotch appeared in front of him. What if it wasn't enough, though? What if all that nifty proof didn't bring people back to her hotels? Or what if it took a few months, maybe even a year, to get everybody back? She wouldn't have any money coming in. His confession wouldn't do a damn thing to

Inheritance

help her there. She needed money to make the payments on her loans, and to keep the staffs of the hotels paid, and maintenance and all the rest. Thousands of dollars a month.

Well, she had those shares of Salinger Hotels stock. She could sell them, and then she wouldn't have so much to pay off every month. But that wouldn't solve anything. Anyway, she shouldn't have to sell her stock; she just bought it, and she was so excited about it, finally getting what she should have had in the beginning, after Owen left it to her in his—

"Goddam son of a bitch! I can take care of that, too!"

People stared. He'd been hunched over on his bar stool for over an hour, a solitary figure scowling as he downed his drinks. Now he sat up, his small mustache stretched above a wide grin. "It's perfect! It's beautifiil!"

He'd send Owen's letter to Colby, along with the Ehirer prints and the keys. He'd read the letter a dozen times: it proved Owen was totally in his right mind when he decided to leave Laura the hotels and his house and two percent of his shares in the company. Well, she'd bought the hotels and the shares, and she might not want the Beacon Hill house anymore, but how about another two percent of the company? Another ten million bucks' worth. She sure as hell could use that.

Unless the letter was too old to do any good after all these years. I need a lawyer. Clay thought. He started to laugh. That seemed very ftmny to him.

But the next morning he got very serious and went to see a law professor at the university. "I'm a law student at UCLA," he said earnestly. "I'm on a vacation and I brought some of my woik and I need some information, and if you could help me . . .

"I do not know the laws of all your states," the professor said.

"Well, this is general. Do you know if a jury's verdict can be cancelled years later if new evidence is found that shows it was wrong?"

"Ah, this I know. It cannot. Once a verdict is given, unless it is immediately appealed, it is final and cannot be changed.

"But if it was wrong— **

647

»♦

Judith Michael

"Even then. Except in cases of life or death, new evidence by itself can accomplish nothing.'*

"Shit," Clay muttered.

"Of course, if you find the new evidence was willfully withheld from the jury, then that would be fraud. If you can prove the deception, you might successfully prosecute someone for fraud. If that is what you wish to do."

Slowly, Clay looked up. "Fraud."

"If that is what you wish to prove. I gather this is not something you are doing for law school; this is a personal matter?"

"No! Well, sort of. I'm getting information for a friend."

"Of course. Is there anything else you wish to know?"

He shook his head. "You've been great. Thanks."

Felix in jail for fraud. The idea was so delicious Clay could almost taste it. He walked across the campus and took a bus into the center of the city. Felix in jail for fraud. They'd get back at him for what he did to Laura. And if he asked fcem to keep Owen's letter a secret so he could stay out of jail, they mi^t do that—in exchange for ten million dollars' worth of shares in Salinger Hotels, made out to Laura. Maybe more than that.

Absolutely beautiful. They had the bastard coming and going.

Except—he didn't know how to do it. If he sent the letter to Laura, who'd believe her if she said Felix had hidden it? Even if he wrote to Colby or somebody, telling them he'd taken it from Felix's desk, who'd believe him? The only way would be if Felix still had the letter and other people saw him with it.

He wandered into the Cafe Cordova for lunch and ordered huevos and a beer. When the beer came, he poured it slowly into his glass. And as he did so, an image came to him: a safe, nearly empty, in a New York town house on Fifty-first Street. If the letter was in Felix's safe, and he didn't know it, and he opened it in front of witnesses, there wasn't one single fucking thing he could say that would convince anybody that he hadn't hidden it to keep Laura from getting her inheritance.

Goddam, Clay thought, staring at his beer. That would do

Inheritance

it. That would do it for Laura. And it would take care of Felix, too.

He grinned, feeling excitement build inside him. Of course he*d be doing it for Laura, only for her, but still, it was fantastic: really different, really dangerous. For the first time in his life, he was going to break into a house not to take something out, but to put it in.

Chapter 32

LAURA was speaking with the concierge when Paul arrived. At first she did not see him. "Everything must be the same," she was saying. "Just because we have empty rooms doesn't mean the service will change."

"I agree, Madame Fairchild. I told my assistant to take his vacation now because this week I can spare him but in a short time, when all is resolved and our guests return, I will need him once again."

Laura smiled. "Very good," she murmured.

"I have also told ... ah, excuse me." He looked behind Laura. "Yes, sir, may I help you?"

"When Miss Fairchild is free," Paul said.

Laura spun about and found herself almost in his arms. Their eyes held, and her hand came up and met his. Their fingers twined. "Welcome home," she said softly. Her face was flushed.

He smiled at her, and she felt the years drop away. "When you're finished here . . ."

"Yes." She turned, her hand still clasped in Paul's, and swiftly concluded her conversation with the concierge. "Anything else we'll take care of tomorrow. Unless you have any questions?"

"No, madame. Everything is under control."

"Yes," Laura murmured. "Perhaps now it is." She looked at Paul. "Where would you like to go?"

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"Fd like to see your house."

She smiled at him. "I'd like you to be there." They walked through the lobby, hand in hand, not speaking. They barely spoke in the taxi; there was too much to say. It was enough to sit together, their hands still entwined, their bodies touching, their eyes meeting in a smile while the driver wove through traffic and talked back to a radio talk show.

Inside the house, Laura closed the door. "I would very much like to kiss you."

Paul chuckled. "My love . . ."He took her in his arms, and they kissed in a long embrace. "I picked a terrible time to be away," he said at last.

"But a wonderful time to come back. I did want you so, the last few days. ..."

He kissed her again, holding her, rediscovering how her

1^ body fit to his. "Do you know how often I've dreamed of this?

I've had so many conversations with you in my head you'll be

I hearing them for the next fifty years. Do you know how many

things I want to do for you? Do you have any idea how much I

love you?"

"Paul, what are you talking about?" She drew back and looked at him. "What about Emily? I can't pretend she doesn't exist."

"My God, you don't know. No, of course not, how could you? Emily is in California. We're getting a divorce. I can't be sure when it will happen, but soon. I'll tell you about it later. Not now."

"No, not now." Her eyes shone. She was warm, so warm; her blood sang and her mouth opened beneath his. "I want to make love to you," she said. She smiled with a hint of the liveliness he remembered. "It's very hard when a woman has to think of everything, Paul; you haven't even mentioned it. Does that mean you can't be sure when it will happen?"

He laughed. "I'm sure of love. And pleasure." He held out

his hand, and she took it as they walked upstairs. "Your house