Suicide Season (6 page)

The slender woman led me past the girl’s room to the master bedroom. “Let’s put her in here—I’d rather not have her sleep alone.”

I placed the small figure on the expanse of white coverlet, and her mother tucked the cloth up to her chin, then sat and stroked the head dwarfed by one of the big pillows. The girl’s hair was lighter than her mother’s and longer, and draped motionless over the pillow.

Splashing some brandy into the glass, I held it out to Mrs. Haas. “This is for you.”

Her hand, pale and slightly trembling, gripped the glass as she stared at her daughter, whose eyelids sagged shut with exhaustion. A faint tick came from the pillow and I saw the dark splotch of a tear.

“I’ll be down the hall.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You finally found some.” McAllister and the boy sat together on the small couch.

“Detective Kiefer wanted to ask some questions.”

“We’ll talk about that later. I’ve been telling young Austin, here, that he’ll have to come work for me in a few years. We’ll make a real American capitalist out of him.”

I set the brandy on a bureau. “Mrs. Haas is putting the girl to bed.”

“Shauna.” The boy spoke directly to me for the first time. “She’s not just a girl, she’s my sister. Shauna.” His defiant eyes, brimming with hurt and anger and tears, had found something tangible to focus on, and some part of his disintegrating family that he could defend. “My sister!”

“I forgot Shauna’s name, Austin.” I smiled. “I’m sorry.”

He said nothing but only stared at me and through me toward this threatening thing which he still did not understand and which would not go away, but had begun to loom larger and larger across his future like a widening, empty hole.

“Well I want you and Shauna to come visit,” said McAllister. “Do you remember the big picnic last June? When you and Shauna met all the other boys and girls and had such a good time in the pool?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t that a good time? We’ll all do that again.”

“I got in a fight with that big kid. He tried to duck me.”

“Did you now! I didn’t see that. Tell me about it.”

The boy was still telling his story when Mrs. Haas came in to say her daughter was asleep. “The police are leaving, too. There’s no need for you to stay. It was very kind of you to come over.”

“Why don’t you and the children stay at my place until your relatives get here. Sarah will be glad to have you.”

“That’s kind of you, Owen, but we’re all right. And I think the children will feel less upset if we stay here.”

“Mr. McAllister said he wanted us to come for a visit sometime, Mom. Me and Shauna.”

“That’s good, dear. And we will go visit soon.”

McAllister stood. “If you’re certain you’ll be all right … ?”

“I’m certain.”

“I don’t like leaving you alone, Margaret. Isn’t there someone, some neighbor who can come over?”

“We don’t know anyone that well; it’s a new neighborhood.”

“I can ask Raymond to stay. Or perhaps Devlin, here.”

“I think I’d rather be alone, Owen. I’ll be all right. Really.”

“Well then, Sarah will call in the morning. Please get some rest.”

We rode in silence until we had passed the gatehouse and the casual salute of the guard.

“That’s a very strong woman,” McAllister said finally.

Either strong or brittle. I hoped it was the former. “Did her husband have enough insurance?”

“He had the company’s standard coverage, of course, with whatever additional options he chose. And probably some other policies as well.” He glanced at me. “Was that a professional question?”

“No. I was just thinking of the payments on a house like that. And the other bills they must have.”

“No doubt they have their share. Can’t keep up without it.”

“That sounds almost smug.”

“Smug? Realistic, Devlin: I locate good people, pay good wages, and promise greater reward for harder work. I don’t want a person working for me who doesn’t want the good things of life. There’s not a damn thing wrong with that, young man. And if someone wants to live better than he can afford right then, that’s fine, too—makes him work all the harder to pay his bills.”

“What happened to the virtue of frugality?”

“Relative term. Always has been. I like my people to enjoy their lives. Makes the golden leash that much stronger. Stock options and good retirement plan: a company can get a man’s whole life that way—look what it’s done for IBM.”

“Do you believe Haas was living better than he could afford?”

“As you’ve said, it’s a big home with big payments. But maybe he traded up, maybe his wife has money, maybe he has family money. I know what you’re thinking, but you haven’t come up with any proof, have you?”

“No.”

“And now it seems pointless to try.” He stared out the window at the rows of small, dark homes tucked back from the street under the thinning leaves of early fall. “Damn it! I did what had to be done. There was that telephone call … and I did what had to be done.”

“There’s no indication that we drove the man to suicide. And none that he took the proposals.”

“You think it might have been someone else?”

“All I’m saying is there’s no evidence one way or another. We have two events: the theft and the telephone call. But they may or may not be connected.”

“Then why did he shoot himself?”

I had no answer to that.

The limousine sailed up a small hill toward the crest where the McAllister estate began. “Nonetheless, this investigation’s over,” he said. “I won’t chance anyone else’s suicide. And if Haas was innocent, that makes it all the worse, doesn’t it?”

“It would if our investigation caused it.”

“So we have three events now. Still unconnected? I think the odds are increasing for a connection. But it’s time to stop, nonetheless.” He was silent for a breath or two. “However, I do want you to evaluate my company’s security; it obviously needs improvement. Call me tomorrow—” he glanced at his watch—”this afternoon, and I’ll introduce you to Bartlett, my chief of security. As for the Aegis theft … “ A deep, shrugging breath. “There’ll be other times—and other means. Those poor children … “

T
HE SNOW HAD
been one of my favorite kinds, heavy and wet so that it clung to every spur of brick and cornice and transformed the warehouse district into tiers of frosted cakes. And the bright glare of the March sun was warm enough to melt it quickly so it did not have time to be sullied by the city’s grime. Below, dark slashes already cut the street down to wet asphalt as the morning trucks lined up for delivery and pickup, and an occasional shaft of melting snow spiraled down from the sun-glowed facades across the street. The snows of spring were far different from those of autumn, more festive, shorter lived, bringing blessed moisture and the soft green of leaves and grass, and signaling an end to the bone-gnawing cold that made it a struggle to walk outside. It was a welcome change, too, from the dust and wind and gritty, noisy streets of Riyadh where Bunch and I had spent the last six weeks. Loomis had promised me that working for McAllister would be a fine opportunity, and ever since the Haas case, the luck of Kirk and Associates had changed for the better. Right now, in fact, Bunch was out following up an inquiry from a brokerage firm for a personnel screening. Whether or not the job came as a result of telephone calls to Owen McAllister—”Say, Owen, can you recommend a good firm in executive security”—the good luck was nonetheless tangibly related to our work for McAllister and we accepted it gratefully. Even Uncle Wyn, on one of his visits, had watched with some awe as the old scarred desk was hauled away and the new one with its richly stained wood was carefully set in place.

“A new house for you—new furniture for the office. You’re making a real success, Dev. This Peeping Tom business, there must be some real money in it.”

“Industrial security, Uncle. Executive protection, electronic defense perimeters, the security of classified and proprietary information. We don’t do very much peeping.”

“Sure. Right. But it’s still good money. Tell you the truth, I never expected to be paid back.” He ran a finger along the edge of an oak bookcase that held shelves of legal and technological references. The finger had an awkward twist in it from being broken by a fastball in the minor leagues, one of a number of souvenirs from his years as a catcher. “Douglas would have been proud of you.”

“If Dad had hung on for a little while, I could have helped him. Hell, I could have helped him then—so could you. All he had to do was ask.”

“Don’t blame him, Devlin. Sometimes asking is the hardest of all. Besides, it was that professor—Loomis. He drove him to it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know how. I only know what I feel. I never liked that guy.”

Liking had nothing to do with a bullet in the brain—so permanent a solution to such temporary problems. And it had nothing to do with bringing back my father or telling him the things I never got around to saying. And of course he would never share any of this, either, which drained something of my satisfaction and brought me even closer to understanding those moments of quiet sadness in his eyes that had punctuated my childhood.

Through the busy rumble in the snowy world beyond the window, I heard the office door open and turned, expecting Bunch. But it wasn’t. Well-tailored, and well worth it, the woman smiled and there was something familiar about her black hair and especially the green eyes that studied me. “Mrs. Haas?”

She held out a hand. “I’m flattered that you remember. Owen McAllister told me how to find you. I wasn’t certain it was you standing there. I’m afraid I was somewhat disoriented that night.”

“Understandably. It was a tragic time.” A twinge of pain crossed those eyes and I changed the subject. “How are the children?”

“They’re doing all right—as well as can be expected. Thank God, children are resilient.”

“In time it will heal over,” I lied. She nodded and the brightness that had been with her suddenly dimmed as she remembered. I turned one of the chairs whose leather still had a new and unchafed look. “Please sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you.” She sat and stared for a long moment at her slender hands, which were now ringless and gripped the purse that matched her gray suit. Even on the night of her husband’s death, despite the shock and dishevelment, she had been an attractive woman. Now that beauty was very clear, and made poignant by her melancholy. “I tried to get in touch with you earlier, but you were—”

“Out of the country. We had a client in Saudi Arabia—an oil company worried about the security of their executives.”

“I see.”

“I assume this isn’t a social visit, Mrs. Haas?”

“Well, I did want to thank you for your help that night.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“And to ask you something.” She looked up, her eyes still showing hurt. “I heard that my husband—that Austin—was suspected of taking the Lake Center and the Columbine proposals and selling them to the Aegis Group.”

I did not say anything.

“And I hear that you were investigating him.”

Leaning back in my chair, I looked at the scattering of items on the new desk: a file for papers, a glass bristling with assorted ball-point pens, a yellow legal tablet with a few scribbled notes, an appointment calendar, the latest copy of Guns Magazine.

“It is true, isn’t it?”

“That he was a suspect? Yes. Everyone who had access to the plans was a suspect. Everyone had to be. Why do you want to know?”

“There has to be some cause for what he did.”

“There was never any evidence that he was guilty.”

“Then who was?”

“We don’t know. Mr. McAllister closed the case just after your husband’s death.”

“Because he was sure Austin did it?”

“Not at all. He said the projects weren’t worth even the possibility of another death, and he didn’t want to take a chance on causing any more pain like yours.”

Her long fingers absently stroked the purse in her lap, furring the gray suede and then smoothing it again.

“But you were investigating Austin in particular when it happened, weren’t you?”

“That’s all in the past now, Mrs. Haas.”

“But you were.”

“Yes.”

“And he could have been guilty?”

“There’s no evidence.”

“I want you to find out.”

“What?”

“I want you to determine if he was innocent or guilty.”

“Mrs. Haas, there’s no purpose in this. Why not leave it alone?”

“Suppose he was innocent?”

“He probably was. I’ve told you, there was no—”

“We both know what it implies when a man shoots himself while he’s under suspicion. The children have already asked why their father did it. I don’t have any reason to give them. And I don’t want someone else telling them it was because he was a thief.”

“Who told you about your husband?”

“A friend who’d heard some gossip among the company wives. It’s only a matter of time before their children hear it—and then mine.”

“I see … “ I tapped the legal pad in line with the edge of the blotter. “Suppose—only supposing now—that he was guilty?”

The fingers stroked again before she looked up without flinching. “Then I will know why he did it. As it is, he’s assumed to be guilty anyway.”

“I don’t think I want this job.”

“Why?”

“If, some way, your husband found out about my investigation, then I may have contributed to his death.”

“If you won’t do it, I can get someone else. But they’ll have to start all over at the beginning. Mr. Kirk—Devlin—Austin did not steal those proposals. But even if it were possible, I know he wouldn’t have shot himself for something like that. He was a strong man, very strong. That’s why Owen hired him and promoted him so rapidly.”

Which circled back to the familiar question: Why did he do it?

And she seemed to read my mind. “Perhaps that’s what I’m really after, Devlin: to know.”

“Sometimes there is no explanation. Sometimes there’s only the question, and we never do find the answer.”

“Then I haven’t lost anything, have I?”