Too Many Murders (13 page)

“Yesterday, midday. Grotesque, isn’t he?”

“No, Mr. Smith, not grotesque, which implies an unpleasant element. Special Agent Kelly is a particularly fine specimen of man. What did he do after he arrived?”

“Asked to see Desmond’s penthouse and offices. Naturally we coöperated fully.”

“Did it not occur to anyone to call Commissioner Silvestri and notify him of an FBI presence in a local murder scene?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity.”

“I don’t see why. You’re all on the same side.”

“Are we? That’s comforting to know. However, if Mr. Kelly took something from either place, the Holloman Police should be told, and were not. If you’re personally aware that anything has gone missing, I suggest you tell me right now.”

“Uh—apart from Desmond’s personal filing cabinet, nothing,” said Smith uneasily. “He kept it in his walk-in safe, but Mr. Kelly had a key and the combination. There’s nothing in it would interest the Holloman police—too esoteric. The files were all sensitive aspects of our defense contracts. You would not have the necessary security clearances, Captain Delmonico.”

“You might be surprised, Mr. Smith.”

Smith laughed derisively. “Oh, come, Captain! You’re a big fish in a very small puddle. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Thank you for the reminder. In the meantime, I’d be grateful if you issued a Board directive to all Cornucopia Central staff to coöperate with me and mine.” Carmine rose to his feet. “My thanks for the coffee.” He went across to the Long Island Sound window and looked at his house, frowning. “Now if you seat yourself behind your desk, sir, we can get down to our real business.”

Smith obeyed, seeming uncomfortable; the suavity had gone.

“Tell me what you know about Desmond Skeps.”

“He was detestable,” Smith answered, both hands on the desk palms downward. “I doubt you’ll obtain a different opinion from anyone who knows him—knew him. Though Cornucopia is listed on the stock exchange, Desmond owned a clear majority of the shares, so he could do pretty much as he liked. And he did.”

“Can you give me an example of his doing as he liked?”

“Certainly. Cornucopia Research. We all opposed his setting up our own research laboratories, chiefly because our companies span such a gamut of industries, but he insisted. It meant a massive facility with a bill in the hundreds of millions. He was right in one way—we don’t have to go hat in hand to outside labs anymore. The research stays here in Holloman with us. When he stole Duncan MacDougall from PetroBrit, Cornucopia Research was complete. MacDougall is one of the three men in the world who can administer a unit that size. Why am I complaining? Because we’ll never recoup the outlay. Dividends plunged.”

“Did you associate personally with Mr. Skeps?”

“Naturally! Far more, however, when he was married to Philomena. Now there was an ideal tycoon’s wife! Educated, beautiful, charming, modest as women should be but rarely are. These days they’re trollops, all of them. Desmond was obsessed with Philomena, especially after Desmond Three was born, but he couldn’t overcome his completely unfounded jealousy. The pool man was her lover, the gardener, the phone technician, even the paperboy. In the end, no man who wanted to keep his job would go near her, and the poor woman had a breakdown. When she came out of it, she left Desmond for good, even though she didn’t have a bean. I respected her, Captain, truly respected her.”

Carmine glanced briefly at his papers. “I have Mrs. Skeps listed as living in Orleans, Massachusetts, sir. That doesn’t suggest she’s on the breadline. You’re going to have to explain why she didn’t—er—have a bean.”

“Desmond overstepped the mark when she sued for divorce,” said
Philip Smith. “He persecuted her—hired seedy private detectives to hound her, even kidnapped Desmond Three, though she hadn’t denied him access to the child. By the time the case got into court, she had an attorney worth his weight in gold, Anthony Bera. Expressed briefly, she was awarded astronomical alimony and sole custody of Desmond Three. She bought a property in Orleans and sent the boy to the Trinity Grey School last year. Despite her retaining Mr. Bera to watch over her interests, she isn’t a vengeful woman, Captain. Desmond continued to have access to the boy, who hasn’t been poisoned against his father.”

“I see. How long ago was the divorce?”

“Five years ago last November.”

“And has Mr. Skeps had intimate congress with other women since then? Has he a mistress? Girlfriends?”

Philip Smith looked irritated. “How would I know?”

“You had plenty of contact with the man.”

“Not when it came to whom he philandered with, Captain! I am known to disapprove of such activities.” He drew a breath. “Go ask Erica Davenport!”

Myron’s inamorata! “Why? Is she the likely one?”

“No, definitely not. That woman’s an iceberg. But she may know the more prurient aspects of Desmond’s life.”

“Fill me in on the iceberg, Mr. Smith.”

“This is like being the class tattletale!”

“Tattle away, Mr. Smith.”

“Erica is the head of Cornucopia Legal, which oversees the activities, contractual and otherwise, of all Cornucopia.”

“Define ‘otherwise,’ sir.”

“Oh, how would I know? Things like verbal indiscretions, potential libels and slanders, compromising behavior in senior personnel.”

“Wow! Mr. Skeps ran a tight ship.”

“He had to. We do a lot of business with the Pentagon.”

“So it would be fair to say that Miss Davenport heads up Cornucopia’s private KGB?”

“Oh,
unkind!
She’s a ‘doctor,’ actually. Dr. Erica Davenport. She’s been with us for ten years. Her undergraduate studies were at Smith, in economics, then she went on to Harvard Law. After which she did the customary dreary apprenticeship all lawyers do—at a firm in Boston. When she came to us, we funded her doctorate in corporate law at Chubb. A terrifyingly intelligent woman! She took over Cornucopia Legal from Walter Symonds ten years ago. Those years in Boston were not wasted, Captain. We got a fully polished gem.”

“Her childhood background, Mr. Smith?”

“WASP, from Massachusetts—plenty of money in the family.” Smith examined his buffed nails. “She knows all the right people—I was told she was the most beautiful debutante of her year.”

Where did she fit it all in? Carmine wondered. Debutantes don’t usually end up working for dreary Boston law firms.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Smith. Please remember that, no matter what the federal interest in Cornucopia might be, this is first and foremost a murder investigation.” On his way to the door he paused. “Where will I find Cornucopia Legal?”

“Right below here.”

That pecking order again! Clearly Dr. Davenport rated a two-viewed set of windows—unless, of course, the size of her office was considerably reduced.

It was not. Here there were definite signs of feminine occupancy: vases of spring flowers, delicately pastel paper on the two solid walls, woodwork painted pale green to match the leather upholstery, a pink-hued oriental rug on the blond wood floor. A room that gave an impression of a soft, nice, intensely feminine occupant. Horseshit, thought Carmine. The woman Philip Smith had described ought by rights to be flaunting black leather and chains. Women just didn’t rise to head a segment of Cornucopia without more than their share of cunning, ruthlessness and utter heartlessness. The only person she’d cry for was herself. Poor Myron!

She was coming to meet him, which gave him a good opportunity to assess her. Yes, the private school princess brought to full
bloom. He knew she was born on February 15, 1927, which made her forty years old, but she could have passed for thirty. Of mediumtall height, she moved very gracefully and had a whipcord-slim body atop a pair of extremely shapely legs. The clothes could not be faulted, from the cobalt blue dress with a floating, longish miniskirt to the French shoes with very high heels. The studs in her ears were two-carat diamonds, and the single diamond on a chain around her neck added another four carats. Her streaky blonde hair was cut almost as short as a man’s and combed forward to frame a face of sculpted bones under thick tanned skin; her mouth was red-lipped and full, her nose had a slightly aquiline curve, and her large, open eyes were a cobalt blue reflection of her dress. Here was the queen bee; how had Desmond Skeps managed to dominate her?

He held his hand out. “Captain Carmine Delmonico, Holloman Police,” he said. At first glance he had begun to revise his opinion of how she had risen to head Cornucopia Legal; a woman this beautiful could do it on her back. Then he encountered her eyes, and dismissed the idea of a horizontal promotion. The ruthlessness, cunning and heartlessness were all there, and well used. She would have despised woman’s wiles, taken on her adversaries with their own weapons.

Her grip was like a man’s, but brief; she indicated that he should take the client’s chair, and seated herself behind her desk. Erica Davenport would never consciously place herself in any situation where she might lose one iota of her hard-won authority.

“I believe we have a friend in common,” he said.

“Myron Mandelbaum? Yes. What a pity I’m barred from meeting him on his own turf, but of course I understand. Who could ever have predicted Desmond’s death?”

“Who, indeed? Not you, I take it, Dr. Davenport?”

“No. It came as a terrific shock.”

“Do you think it’s linked to his business activities?”

“I have no idea, honestly.”

“What happens now—on the business front, I mean?”

“We wait to see what Desmond’s will contains, as he’s the majority
shareholder and the virtual owner of Cornucopia.” Like Smith, she studied her nails, which she kept long and lacquered pale pink. Probably not a lesbian, he thought.

“How long before the will is read?”

“That depends on his personal lawyers, who are situated in New York City. I believe someone is coming up with all his testamentary papers tomorrow. His son is bound to inherit, and whoever is named as little Des’s guardian at law won’t be in a position to tamper with Desmond’s dispositions.”

“Even so, I’d appreciate a copy of the will as soon as it’s been read,” Carmine said. He changed tack. “Has anything been different over the past few days, Dr. Davenport? His mood, for example?”

She frowned, concentrating. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you have any idea who the woman in his life is?”

A laugh. “Oh, that! I don’t believe there was one.”

“You’re beautiful. It wasn’t you?”

“No, it certainly wasn’t me,” she said, her tone even. “He didn’t go for blondes, as you’ll find out when you see Mrs. Skeps.”

“Neither of them married again.”

“No. Or looked at anyone else, is my theory.”

“Why is the FBI here?”

“Our Pentagon contracts, I imagine.”

“Has it caused trepidation at Cornucopia Legal?”

Her thin, plucked brows rose. “Why should it? Cornucopia has done nothing wrong. I’m assured the FBI presence is routine.”

“You don’t strike me as a trusting person.”

She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Just a hunch. Have you anything else to tell me?”

“No,” she said curtly, then summoned up a charming smile that suggested she was remembering that Myron, whom she liked very much, was tied to Carmine Delmonico by the strings that laced his heart.

“Then I’ll leave you to your work.”

Out in the foyer, he found Abe and Corey.

“Did you get it home safely?” he asked.

“As a baby, Carmine. We left Delia in charge.”

“Good.”

“Who’s the looker?” Corey asked.

“Dr. Erica Davenport. Lovely but lethal.”

“Isn’t she Myron’s new girlfriend?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Come on, Carmine, Myron’s not impressionable,” said Abe.

“I wouldn’t worry if she were another gold-digging bimbo, but she’s not. Her face might not have the power to launch a thousand ships, but her job combined with her intelligence just might. Still, it’s not my business. How’s Special Agent Kelly doing?”

Corey and Abe laughed. “Not pleased when he found his filing cabinet on untouchable territory without that warrant, and he’ll have to go to Hartford to find a federal judge. So we sent him to see Doubting Doug Thwaites.”

Carmine joined their mirth. “Brilliant! He’ll be hours.”

Carmine, Corey and Abe decided to eat in the Cornucopia cafeteria, where, to Abe and Corey’s surprise, Carmine led the way to a roomy table where Michael Donald Sykes was eating a lonely lunch. Carmine’s prey—for such he clearly was—looked uneasy at first, then rather pleased.

“Don’t you have a ticket to the executive dining room?” Carmine asked, unloading his New England clam chowder, chicken-and-rice, and lime Jell-O with pears and cream.

“If I want it,” Sykes said defensively.

“Isn’t the food upscale from this?”

“That’s the trouble, it is. Also more expensive. I like eating plain. Besides, you’ve met Philip Smith—would you want to listen to him discussing which wine to have with his escaloppes de veau? What a pain that guy is!”

“Not a wine buff, Mr. Sykes?” Corey asked.

“I’m not an anything buff when it comes to food or drink,” said Mr. Sykes. “Model soldiers, now, that’s different!”

“Shiloh spread out in the basement, huh?” Abe asked.

Sykes looked scornful. “No! I’m a Napoleonic era man! Austerlitz and Marengo.”

“And Waterloo?” Carmine enquired.

“Waterloo is like the Civil War—common.”

“How common is wealth among the Cornucopia executives?” Carmine asked, wondering if Mr. Sykes’s war games extended to military takeovers of industrial giants. That would certainly lift his basement activities out of the common way.

“Apart from me and Erica Davenport, they’re all as rich as Croesus.” Michael Donald Sykes carefully cut his Jell-O into cubes and topped each one with a dollop of cream. “It’s an old-boy network—
Mayflower
families, fancy prep schools, Chubb University. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were all related. Desmond Skeps’s father was well heeled, you know, otherwise he would never have found the capital to establish Cornucopia. Up until 1938 he’d manufactured parts for automobiles, but it was chickenfeed, couldn’t have funded Cornucopia. Yet he had the clout to call on enough private loans among his friends from family and school to do it. But he was too smart to part with shares. As soon as the Second World War was raking in the money, he paid his loans back with interest and sat on the company like a dog with a dinosaur bone.”