The Little Death (20 page)

“Didn’t
you also just say you’d been arrested for Aaron’s murder?”

“Yes.”

“How
did that happen?”

“I
was holding the gun.” I heard Grant make a noise, and I explained how it was I
came to be at Aaron’s house when the police arrived. I also told him that the
police were treating the case as a burglary and that the district attorney
considered any other interpretation of the events leading to Aaron’s death
unprovable.

“But
you think differently.”

“Yes.”

“I
was afraid of that. I take it, then, this is not a social call.”

“Grant,
I’ve respected your wish to be left out of this, until now.”

“Is
that the sound of chips being cashed I hear?” he said.

“The
police are prepared to write off Aaron’s death the same way they wrote off
Hugh,” I continued, ignoring his joke. “I want to make contact with John Smith.”

“You’re
obsessed with Smith,” Grant said. “He’s just a private citizen — albeit a rich
one.”

“Money
makes things happen,” I replied, “and if even you feel intimidated by John
Smith, imagine his effect on a chief-of- police. Or the mayor.”

There
was a thoughtful silence on the line.

“First,”
Grant said, “you’ll have to engage his attention.”

“All
I want is my foot in the door.”

“I’m
going to put you on hold,” Grant said, and the line went blank. Five minutes
later he came back on. “Sorry,” he said, “I had to make a call. I want you to
call this number and ask for Peter Barron. He’s one of Smith’s aides at
Pegasus.”

“At
what?”

“Pegasus.
Smith’s corporate flagship. A holding company.”

He
gave me the number. I thanked him. We hung up.

A
company that owns companies. That’s how Terry Ormes had described the
corporation that held title to the house in San Francisco that Hugh had leased
and was living in at the time of his death. Pegasus Corporation.

I
dialed the number Grant had given me.

“Good
morning. Mr. Barron’s office,” a woman said.

“Is
Mr. Barron in?”

“Yes.
Who may I say is calling?”

“Henry
Rios.”

“May
I tell Mr. Barron what this call is in reference to?”

“Hugh
Paris,” I replied.

“One
moment.” I was back on hold.

“Good
morning, Mr. Rios,” a male voice said. For the briefest moment I thought I
recognized the voice.

“Mr.
Barron? I’m a friend of Grant Hancock. He gave me your number—”

“How
is Grant?”

“He’s
fine. Look, I have some information about Hugh Paris’s death that I think might
interest your employer, Mr. Smith.”

“Such
as?”

“Hugh
was murdered at the direction of his grandfather, Robert Paris, and whoever
performed the killing is still at large.”

There
was a long skeptical pause. “I see,” he said finally. “Have you shared this
information with the police?”

“The
police take the position that Hugh’s death was accidental.”

“Oh,
is that the position the police take?” His tone was mocking. Once again, his
voice sounded familiar. “Well, Mr. Rios, I doubt that Mr. Smith is in any
position to do what the police can’t or won’t do. He was deeply affected by
Hugh’s death, and I think, at his age, he should be spared these speculations
which would only make Hugh’s loss harder to accept.”

“It’s
not speculation. I have proof.”

“Mr.
Rios, give the old man a break. He doesn’t need to hear that members of his
family killed each other off. Take your story back to the police or, better
yet, keep it to yourself.”

Switching
to a different tack I asked, “Who arranged for the lease of Hugh’s house from
Pegasus?”

“What
are you talking about?”

“Hugh
leased his house from Pegasus. Who was his contact there?”

“Pegasus
isn’t in the real estate business.”

“I
saw the lease.”

There
was silence on the other end. At last he said, “Can’t be. Look, Henry, I really
must go.”

“Have
we ever met?”

“I
don’t think so,” he replied, sounding, I thought, nervous.

“I
know your voice.”

“Well,
maybe we’ve met through Grant. Goodbye, Henry.”

The
line went dead.

A
moment later I was back on the phone to Grant asking him what Peter Barron
looked like.

“I’ve
only seen him a few times. He’s about our age. Blond. Handsome. Gay.”

Blond,
good-looking — that’s how Aaron’s neighbor described the man he saw in Aaron’s
yard the night of the murder. Was that also the man I saw? I closed my eyes,
but I was unable to picture the face. Still, his hair — it was blond, wasn’t
it? And I knew I had seen him somewhere before.

“Gay?”
I asked Grant. This, too, seemed significant.

“I’ve
run into him at Sutter’s Mill,” he said, naming a bar popular with
professionals. “Did he say something to you?”

“No,
nothing like that. Is there any chance I might’ve met him through you?”

“I
hadn’t seen you in four years until two weeks ago,” Grant said. “Hardly enough
time to introduce you to my friends, much less a cocktail party acquaintance.
Do you know Peter Barron?” “I’m sure of it, but I can’t figure out where. He
knows we’ve met, too. He lied to me about that and about Hugh’s relation to
Pegasus. I think I’d better drive up to the city. Where is Pegasus?”

Grant
gave me an address on Montgomery Street.

“I’ll
call you,” I said and hung up.

□
     
           

Pegasus
Corporation was housed on floors thirty-eight, thirty- nine and forty of a
Japanese bank building near the Embarcadero freeway. I called up to Barron’s
office from the street to make sure he was in, then I entered the building. It
was close to noon and I explained to the security guard that I was meeting someone
for a lunchtime conference but had misplaced his office number. I gave the
guard Peter Barron’s name and he made a call.

“He’s
on thirty-nine, sir,” the guard said. “Take one of the elevators to your right.”

On
the thirty-ninth floor I played a variation of the same trick with the
receptionist, a stern-looking young Chinese woman who sat at a desk beneath a
large brass engraving of Pegasus in flight.

“Hello.
Do you know if Mr. Barron’s gone out to lunch yet?”

She
glanced at a sheet of paper. “No,” she said, reaching for the phone. “You have
an appointment?”

“Wait,”
I said, briefly laying my hand over hers as she touched the phone. “Peter and I
roomed together in college ten years ago and I haven’t seen him since. I’m in
town for the week and wanted to surprise him. Understand?”

She
nodded.

“Do
you know when he goes out to lunch?”

“Any
minute now. You can wait here.”

“Okay,
but — well, when I saw Peter he still had hair to his shoulders and was as
skinny as a pole. I’m not sure I’d recognize him.”

She
nodded again as gravely as if I were administering a quiz. Or maybe it was my
antiquity that intimidated her. Her own college years could hardly be more
than a few months behind her.

“Can
you describe him to me?” I asked.

She
looked at the wall behind me, thinking. “He’s about six feet,” she began
hesitantly, “blond hair and blue eyes. Nice build.” She giggled. “Very
handsome.”

Her
description added nothing to what Grant had already told me and it fit about
ten thousand men in the financial district alone.

“Thank
you,” I said. “I’ll sit here with a magazine pulled up over my face and wait
for Peter. You just carry on with your job. All right?”

“All
right,” she said and answered a call.

I
looked at my watch. It was twelve-five. Six minutes later, behind a flock of secretaries,
a blond man stepped into the room from a door beside the receptionist’s desk. I
recognized him at once. He informed the receptionist that he would be out for
the rest of the day.

She
replied loudly, “Thank you, Mr. Barron.”

He
started walking out into the corridor. I put my magazine down and fell into
step beside him.

“Hello,
Peter.”

He
glanced at me and stopped. “Henry. I was just going to pay you a visit.”

He
spoke in the same soft reasonable tone of voice with which he had addressed me
only three weeks earlier, the night he and his three friends abducted me as I
was leaving Grant Hancock’s apartment and shot me up with sodium pentothal.
Peter was the one who wielded the needle and told me he wanted information for
his employer, who I had then thought was Robert Paris.

“You
work for Smith,” I said.

“You’re
surprised?”

“It
doesn’t make sense to me, especially if you also killed Aaron Gold.”

“Killed
who?”

“You
killed Hugh Paris and you killed Aaron Gold.”

“Henry,”
he said with a small, hurt smile. “I have never killed anyone and as for our
last meeting, you might at least give me a chance to explain.”

“One
doesn’t explain away two murders.”

He
sighed impatiently, “Damn it, Henry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.
All right, Hugh was murdered, but not by me. This other guy I’ve never even
heard of.”

My
curiosity overcame me. “Then who killed Hugh?”

He
shook his head. “We — Mr. Smith and I — have been trying to find out. I don’t
know. That’s why I — what did you call it

—
    
abducted
you — that night.”

I
looked at him. We were standing in the corridor while people rushed around us.
He seemed calm and rational for someone just accused of two murders. I, by
contrast, was beginning to sound hysterical even to myself. And he worked for
Smith. Smith, in my scheme of things, was a good guy.

Perhaps
sensing my uncertainty he said, “There’s a lot I have to tell you about Hugh’s
death, Henry, and you have the most urgent right to know. You were his lover.”

“How
did you know that?” I demanded.

“We’ve
been working the same field. You know about me. I know about you.” He reached
out and laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’m gay, too, Henry. I understand.”

I
didn’t want to believe him but no one, not even Grant, had acknowledged my
right to grieve. The weight of Hugh’s death and the frustration I felt at not
knowing who killed him all closed in on me. I brushed aside a tear. Barron
tactfully looked away.

“All
right,” I said. “Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

We
walked to an elevator and stepped inside.

“What
exactly do you do for Smith?” I asked.

He
reached his hand into his jacket, pulling out a gun.

“Special
assignments,” he replied. “Now, we’re going down to the garage, and then we’ll
get off, you first with me following. You behave yourself, Henry, and maybe I’ll
let you live.”

I
looked into his eyes, felt his breath on my face. He smiled and then stepped
behind me, against the wall of the elevator.

“You’re
crazy,” I said. “You killed Hugh and Aaron Gold.”

“An
interesting thought,” he said. “But why would I’ve done that? Who was I working
for?”

“Maybe
no one,” I replied. “You might just be a freelance psychopath.”