The Trust (8 page)

Murphy raised his eyebrows.

“The subdivision knows about the Catholic Fund,” said Biscuit. “The story will find its way to the press. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Then I hold you responsible.” Torres knew her boss would go ballistic if their investigation attracted news coverage. “Maybe it’s time you reestablish your chain of command.”

“I don’t get the hard-ass threats.” Biscuit was crushing the receiver with his grip, forgetting himself. “Who are you to hold soldiers hostage?”

“I’m doing my job. And if you want to protect your clients, I suggest you stick to zoning rather than eyewitness news.”

“That may be impossible.”

“I can refer you to a decent lawyer who knows how to get the job done.”

“You have my number.” Biscuit clicked off.

Time for hardball. Torres decided to call Biscuit later and apply the pressure. A phone call here. A phone call there. She’d make him think twice about hanging up on the FBI.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE LAW OFFICES OF YOUNG AND SCRANTOM

Huitt Young was Palmer’s lawyer and best friend. He was slender, 140 pounds in his British wingtips. He was short, no more than five foot seven. His shock of silver hair, swept back high and tight, added a good inch. Maybe two. He was kinetic. Huitt evoked roughly the same reaction from a room as a Jack Russell terrier. He possessed the breed’s preternatural ability to stir things up. People were wary. And sometimes, true to his profession and canine equivalent, he left messes behind.

Right now, I felt like one of them.

JoJo, Claire, and I had arrived right on time at 10:00
A.M.
Huitt met us in the lobby.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “Grove, you mind waiting here while I discuss family specifics?”

“No prob.”

That was ninety minutes ago.

The first time I phoned my office, Zola reported, “The market’s melting up.”

“Melting up” is the latest jargon from finance. Zola meant that buyers had returned. They were sending stocks sharply higher, 3 and 4 percent in most cases.

A half-dozen calls later, Zola grew tired of my interruptions. So our assistant, Chloe, a single mom who calls it like it is, took over and put me in the adult equivalent of time-out. “We’ll let you know if anything happens.”

The thing about law offices is they don’t keep much reading material in their lobbies. Dentists stock everything from
People
to
Sports Illustrated
for their patients. And my barbershop offers the latest on cars, diets, and cycling, not to mention PG-13 porn like
Maxim.
But there was only one copy of
The Wall Street Journal
in the venerable offices of Young and Scrantom. I had read it front to back fifteen minutes after arrival.

My BlackBerry was running low on juice. I was restless and irritated. I wondered what was taking so long and why I had been summoned in the first place.

What the hell am I doing here?

The last forty-eight hours were a blur. I wore black sunglasses during Palmer’s funeral and well into the night, even though the camouflage wasn’t necessary. Seeing old friends dulled my pain. Classmates from Bishop England came out in droves to pay their respects to Palmer Kincaid. These were people I had not seen for years. And the funeral was, forgive me here, a reunion of sorts.

Those same friends exacerbated Claire’s grief. Don’t get me wrong. She had a good cry with many of them. But she never left my side yesterday. And it was my arm Claire clutched for support, even though we had not seen each other for years.

Weird if you ask me.

Maybe the more familiar faces reminded Claire that Palmer was gone. There would be a void in the life that had once been so consistent. Or maybe Palmer’s advice prompted her to stay close.

“You’re his thousandth man.”

At 11:45
A.M.
Huitt interrupted my reverie. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t expect us to take so long.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Nothing the family can’t work out.”

Danger, Will Robinson.

Inside the conference room, I studied JoJo and Claire for clues. The two women looked about how you’d expect—wrung out from the ordeal.

Huitt launched right into business. “For the sake of clarity, Grove, all numbers are after tax. Best as we can figure, that is.”

“Understood.” Huitt was being modest. He was a fine lawyer.

“Palmer left one hundred and fifty million to the Palmetto Foundation.”

“You’re kidding.”

I couldn’t help the outburst. Palmer’s financial assets totaled about $200 million. Three-quarters was going to charity, a staggering gift by any measure. Instinctively, I checked JoJo and Claire. Both were smiling. Both were crying, tears of joy running down their cheeks.

“Not kidding,” Huitt replied. “And that’s why you’re here.”

Growing up in the South makes you diplomatic. You learn how to ask delicate questions at an early age. Me—I apologize all over myself. I’m formal, a bit awkward. And then I rip right into the rough stuff. “It’s none of my business. And forgive me for asking. But that leaves fifty million give or take?”

Huitt looked at the two women. He was the consummate professional, a lawyer asking his clients for permission to disclose sensitive information.

“Go ahead,” urged JoJo.

Her engagement ring—a three-carat emerald-cut diamond surrounded by baguettes around the band—glinted in the light. I guessed seven figures from Harry Winston. Annie teases me about fashion naïveté. But I know my stores of value, gems included. It comes with the job.

Claire nodded okay and pushed the bangs from her face.

“Fifty million in financial assets,” Huitt said. “Plus the houses.”

No way!

My lips parted for a moment. “That’s after tax?”

He noted my reaction. “That’s what I said. Why the surprise?”

Time for diplomacy.

Fifty million dollars before tax made sense. Fifty million dollars after tax did not, unless Claire was cut out of the will. Estate transfers between spouses, Palmer to JoJo, are tax-free. That’s just the law.

But estate transfers from a parent to a child are fully taxable. If Palmer left any money or real estate to Claire, the remaining cash and financial assets would have been less than $50 million after all the taxes were paid.

Sitting before the two Kincaids, I chose my words carefully. “The balance seems large given what I know about the family.”

“Do you know about Palmer’s life insurance?”

“No. But I get it now.”

Wealthy individuals often buy life insurance policies to pay their estate taxes. It was possible, I now realized, that Palmer had left assets to Claire. I was not about to apologize, though, and ask what she had inherited. Diplomacy is one thing. Bad taste is another. Better to let the details bubble up naturally.

“Why am I here, Huitt?”

“Palmer requested something from you.”

“Anything.”

“He asked you to serve on the Palmetto Foundation’s board.”

Shivers of pride danced up my spine. Pins and needles, the same feeling as a leg falling asleep, crisscrossed my forehead. It’s a big deal in my biz, an honor really, to join a philanthropic board. Especially one with $150 million in assets. “I don’t know what to say.”

“How about yes?” JoJo’s face glowed. Her skin tones were as golden as the light beaming through the windows.

Claire suddenly looked fresh. For a moment, all four of us forgot last week.

Caution being what it is, I reverted to time-tested sales lingo for fishing out details. “Tell me more.”

“The board membership is a volunteer position,” explained Huitt.

“Of course.”

“The foundation will reimburse your expenses. And as a member of the board, you will vote whether to approve or reject the charitable projects.”

“Including those proposed and funded by donors outside the Kincaid family?”

“Absolutely.” Huitt spoke in confident tones, his voice raspy from years of dispensing advice. “JoJo and Claire are your co-trustees. All three of you have one vote each, which makes you the swing vote outside the family.”

“I assume it’s okay to attend meetings over the phone?”

“Absolutely.”

“How soon do you need to know?”

“Monday,” Huitt said. “Otherwise, I find alternates.”

“We need you,” urged JoJo.

“Will you do it?” asked Claire.

“I need to ask SKC.”

“Why’s that?” Claire pushed the bangs from her face again.

“Company policy. I need approval for board affiliations. Especially one that involves money.”

“You’re not being paid,” objected JoJo.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m required to disclose outside activities.”

“Sounds like Big Brother.” Claire pronounced “brother” with three syllables.

“That’s Wall Street.”

“Let me know Monday.” Huitt stood to leave. “And call me if you have questions.”

“I’m flattered.”

Talk about diplomacy. My statement was true enough. Palmer’s invitation to join the board was an honor. But after my initial groundswell of enthusiasm, the old Wall Street cynicism took over.

I had seen this movie before.

The stronger the patriarch and the more sudden the death, the greater the chaos that ensues. I still had no idea what Palmer had left to JoJo, versus what he had left to Claire. If the two ever disagreed, if there was any hidden jealousy, I could be caught in their crossfire.

Maybe that was the price of being Palmer’s thousandth man.

CHAPTER TWELVE

HIGHLY INTIMATE PLEASURES

Biscuit punched off his cell phone. He turned into the parking lot, where the tarmac was crisp, black, and freshly paved. Even though it was late September, waves of heat shimmered off the pavement. Biscuit did not get out. Not at first. Instead, he stewed inside his black Hummer—engine running, air conditioner blasting, Southern sun bearing down two degrees hotter than hell.

He found the river birch surprising. So many of these shade trees had been planted around the lot. They were surrounded by flowering shrubs and at least three different ground covers—variegated lilyturf, cotoneaster, and bishop’s weed. The attention to landscaping was not what he expected outside an adult superstore. The grounds resembled a city park.

For a long while, Biscuit considered Father Michael Rossi. He wondered why the FBI was involved and whether the priest’s death was more than a coincidence. To some extent, he felt guilty. Biscuit had expected to harangue the good father about Highly Intimate Pleasures, to grill him six ways to Sunday. Only now, a Fayetteville inquisition was impossible.

There was also that hard-ass FBI agent. Torres had done a grade-A job busting his chops. Biscuit could feel his face redden, his attitude sour. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “That woman could start an argument in an empty house.”

The moment passed. Biscuit hopped from his truck with unreasonable agility for a big, pudgy man. He surveyed HIP’s parking lot. There was not an eighteen-wheeler to be seen, although sedans and SUVs were scattered everywhere. He wondered whether he’d recognize anybody inside the store.

Biscuit had inspected HIP every day since it opened. A couple of nights, too. Much to his disappointment, the bouncers checked the IDs of all entering the bar at the rear of the store. There would be no easy victories. The twenty-thousand-square-foot complex was already operating with the precision of a well-oiled machine.

These guys don’t make mistakes.

No matter how many times he visited HIP, Biscuit found the experience entertaining. He’d never confide his fascination to clients, though. If Mrs. Jason Locklear ever heard, she’d crucify him on behalf of the neighborhood association. He had expected a seedy interior—no matter how new the store. He once assumed that soundtracks from sex videos, an orgy of hot pillows and clutching thighs, would pulsate over storewide speakers rigged for wall-to-wall moaning.

Not even close. HIP played provocative songs with upbeat lyrics, like the Lady Gaga number about riding a disco stick. There were no fake orgasms pounding through the store. And the interior almost looked Tuscan. The floors were fashioned from faux marble tiles with a soft, rubbery texture. Easy on the feet. There were two rows of Corinthian columns, fourteen fiberglass pillars in all. They split the store in half and created a corridor leading to the bar. Overhead, its neon sign read
THE CATHOUSE CLUB.
Biscuit felt like he was walking through a Roman bath.

Except for the merchandise.

To the left, he saw lingerie of every shape and color. Babydolls, garters, and bras—there was a little something for everyone. There was even a section called the “Naughty Brides Collection.” The selection was massive, lace and fantasy everywhere.

To the right were a series of smaller departments. A big sign read
GOOD VIBES
and promoted the latest and greatest toys underneath. Then there were the videos. The selection seemed small for a twenty-thousand-square-foot superstore. But there was one section dedicated exclusively to Ron Jeremy, the aging porn star of epic disproportions. Beyond the videos, shelves of nutraceuticals promised men they could “grow bigger” or “last longer.” And finally there were novelties and gag products. Cooking paraphernalia promoted breast-shaped cakes or penis meat loaves for those occasions that required something extra.

To Biscuit’s way of thinking, the people in the store were the biggest surprise of all. The customers were women. They outnumbered men at least nine to one. Biscuit had expected skeevy middle-aged guys with bad skin and bourbon fumes wafting out their nose pores. Members of staff were also women, every single one. They wore black pants and black shirts, with
HIP
on the front and
STAFF
on the back. In age, they ranged from their early twenties to their mid-thirties.

One of them, a tall woman with silky shoulder-length hair, stared at Biscuit. She eyed him head to toe, her expression half perplexed and half smile. She was standing behind a table display of vibrators, designed for all occasions and the places where only doctors belong.