When Empires Fall (19 page)

“
As I mentioned, I am with the cold case division of the New York City Police Department.
”

Grant froze, feeling that anxiety bubble burst in his chest and the cloud of it hover there, heavy and massive. “I don’t understand.”

“
I would prefer to have this conversation in person, Mr. Vasser.
”

Grant’s eyes instinctively shot to the portrait of his great-grandfather hanging on the wall across from him. He held them there as he spoke, keeping his voice level. “Be here at nine a.m. sharp tomorrow, detective, and I will give you thirty minutes of my time. No more, no less.”

He hung up the phone before the man could respond, his eyes still on the portrait of Winston Vasser. The uneasiness he felt settled a bit and quelled, but the suspicion and curiosity remained. Just what was it that this Detective Hughes knew about his great-grandfather’s death that had not been uncovered in the sixty years since?

“You killed yourself,” he murmured to the portrait, his hands clenched tightly around the fountain pen that had been his great- grandfather’s, the fountain pen he used nearly every day. It had never really fazed him much to think that the pen had been beside Winston when he had fired the fatal shot, or that his blood had touched its sleek black case. But now he found himself staring down at it, shaking his head slowly. “What in the world could this detective tell me about you that I don’t already know?”

Feeling unsettled, he hastily opened the top drawer of his desk and stowed the pen inside, unable to look at it any longer.

He fought to convince himself that it was nothing, and immediately clicked back into his computer. It was most likely some technicality that the police wanted to tie up, and once that was taken care of, he could move on. He had too much to do already without spending time worrying over some cryptic conversation with a cop.

But as hard as he tried, Grant couldn’t help but feel as though Winston was watching him from the portrait, dark secrets hidden in his charming smile.

“I’ve always said
you have your grandmother’s gift for design.” Marshall beamed at Madison, his blue eyes twinkling with humor and pride. “She would have adored you.”

“I wish I had known her,” she replied, the honesty of the statement softening her words.

They sat beside each other on one of the long sofas in the lobby, discussing minor changes she wanted to make to the décor, including new rugs, fresh flowers, and some kind of water feature near the entrance. It wasn’t a professional skill of hers, but even she couldn’t deny that she had a knack for it. She had personally redesigned the entire first floor of the hotel just three years earlier and had gotten the hotel listed as one of the most beautifully designed hotels in the United States. Not bad for a novice.

Madison looked over at her uncle, her lips quirking into a playful smile. “
P
épère tells me all the time that he sees her inside of me reaching out to him. Perhaps that’s why he keeps me so close.”

“Cyrus keeps you close because you’re his favorite,” Marshall reminded her, patting her knee affectionately. “You look and act very much like him, but he sees the best of Stella in you. I don’t know how it happened that my most irresponsible brother ended up having the best kids. It must be your mother’s influence.”

Madison snorted, shaking her head. “My mother does what she wants and occasionally it has worked out in our best interest. I think our success has more to do with you and
pépère
than anyone else.”

“Well, now.” Marshall grinned, pleased by her praise of him. “I did my best by you kids.”

“And it was more than we deserved half of the time.”

“Nonsense, you were good kids, and you’re still good now,” Marshall insisted. “Though I do worry about Kennedy on occasion.”

“She’s naïve,” Madison declared, her smile fading but her expression carefully devoid of the real frustration she felt. “College may help her grow up, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. My mother has let her act like a child for too long. Kennedy’s too old to want to listen to advice and yet too young to make the right choices.”

“Eighteen is a hard age. She’s going to need you, Grant and Linc to help her now more than ever.”

Madison grew quiet then, keeping her thoughts to herself. Kennedy certainly did not want
her
help. Definitely Linc, maybe Grant, but the last thing the girl would ever be caught dead doing is asking for Madison’s help. It was a truth she had long ago accepted and fought to ignore.

“I’m thinking of changing out the hydrangeas for irises on the front desk. Maybe throw in some wild grasses for texture,” she said then, her lips curving even as her eyes revealed absolutely nothing. Such was the gift and the burden of a skillfully closed off heart.

Marshall frowned, sorry to see her close up on him. It wasn’t too often that they had time to sit and talk like they used to when she had been much younger, when she had sought him out for his advice and knowledge. Now Madison was so independent and very accustomed to dealing with her own problems herself. Including her little sister, who had been making it clear for nearly five years just how much she hated Madison. Well, as much as anyone so young can hate. Even though he knew it had to hurt Madison, the girl had never once expressed any feelings whatsoever on the subject. Instead she kept whatever it was she felt to herself.

He could never understand such introversion.

“I think that would be a lovely idea, dear,” he muttered, his eyes now trained on a medium build, mid-forties black man who had just flashed what looked like a badge at Walter over at the front desk. Walter then looked beyond the man’s shoulder over to where Marshall and Madison were seated and pointed to them.

“That had better not be the health inspector; I am not in the mood.” Madison’s eyes narrowed in on the man as he walked over to them, his expression serious and guarded. Somehow, though, she had a distinct feeling that this man was no health inspector. He carried himself in military style, back rigid and gait purposeful, and the absence of a smile said to her that he took his job much too seriously.

“Marshall and Madison Vasser?” the man asked as he approached, holding his hand out genially.

Marshall accepted the handshake with a polite nod. “That’s us.”

“I’m Detective Don Hughes with the New York City cold case division. I have an appointment with Mr. Grant Vasser, but perhaps it would be advantageous for all of you to join us.”

“What is this regarding?” Madison asked as she shook his hand, her lips curving politely to hide her suspicion.

“I have some information about the death of Winston Vasser,” Don said briefly, looking to Marshall as he said the words. By his research, Marshall was the only Vasser in New York City who had been alive at the time of the murder. His reaction would be telling as to whether or not he had been involved.

Don was somewhat disappointed to see what appeared to be genuine confusion on the older man’s face, his cheerful blue eyes now clouded with concern.

“What kind of information?”

“I would prefer to discuss this with all the Vasser family members who are present in private, if that can be arranged.”

“We will go upstairs,” Madison decided, spotting Linc walking towards them from the front desk. “Linc, please come with us to Grant’s office.”

“Why? What’s going on?” Linc asked, tucking his hands into his jeans pockets as he eyed the detective curiously.

“Detective Hughes says he has information about our great- grandfather that we need to hear.”

It had been nearly five days since he and Grant had argued at lunch and since then the two had not spoken. As such, she knew he would be reluctant to waltz into their brother’s office suddenly, but unfortunately he wasn’t going to have a choice.

“Alright.” Linc kept his eyes on the detective, sizing him up. He looked professional, stone-faced, and quietly patient. That certainly didn’t fit the mold of most of the arrogant cops he had seen in his time. “Let’s go, then.”

The four of them caught one of the elevators and went straight to the second floor. As they exited, Madison led the way towards Grant’s office, ignoring Quinn as she knocked on her brother’s door. Without a word, she swept inside, the others following her.

Marshall smiled warmly at Quinn, though it was strained. Linc said a brief hello, but it was clear he was distracted. The stranger that followed them nodded once to her and continued inside silently, closing the door behind him.

Grant looked up from his computer screen to stare at his family and the detective, glancing briefly at his watch to note that it was five minutes until nine. At least the detective had been punctual.

“Detective Hughes?” Grant asked, rising to his feet to shake the man’s hand as he approached.

“Yes, thank you for meeting with me. I know you are very busy,” Don nodded, looking official in his black slacks and beige dress shirt. He reached into the inside pocket of his dark coat for his badge, showing it briefly to Grant as a force of habit.

“Please, sit down.” Grant motioned to the chairs in front of his desk, his eyes flickering then to his sister, brother and uncle, who were hovering behind the detective. He hadn’t mentioned the brief conversation he had had with the detective the day before as he hadn’t wanted to worry them.

Well, Linc hadn’t been speaking to him all week, so it wasn’t as though he would have said anything to him anyway. But seeing as he was here, for the time being they would just have to put aside their differences.

“I apologize for not being very specific on the phone yesterday, Mr. Vasser, but I felt it was best that I meet with you and your family in person,” Don explained, settling into the chair.

“I understand. I have agreed to give you thirty minutes of my time, detective.”

“I remember.” A brief smile ghosted over Don’s lips before he continued. “A woman came to me yesterday with a letter that she discovered in her recently deceased aunt’s house, a letter written by her grandmother, Rosalie Owens. Does that name sound familiar to you?”

“Yes, of course it does,” Marshall cut in, eyeing the detective incredulously. “I went to Maggie Owens funeral just last week, but whatever her mother had to say is of no value to us.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Vasser,” Don began, turning in his chair to glance up at the eldest Vasser man in the room. “Rosalie Owens claimed, in the letter, that Winston Vasser did not commit suicide, but was in fact murdered.”

No one said anything for a moment as they all processed what the detective had said. Grant’s brow furrowed and Marshall looked flabbergasted, while Madison’s face revealed nothing. Linc, however, shook his head and let out a disbelieving laugh.

“You’re telling us that some woman came to you with some letter, that may or may not have actually been written by Rosalie Owens, that claims our great-grandfather didn’t shoot himself in the head with his own gun in his own suite in this very hotel almost sixty years ago, but that he was
murdered
? I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit, and you’re wasting your time and ours.”

“Linc,” Marshall grunted, glaring over at Linc disparagingly before looking back to Don. “Detective, I find it hard to believe that you are taking this letter so seriously. If you read over the police report from 1957, you’ll find everything in order. It was a definite suicide.”

“I
have
reviewed the case file, Mr. Vasser, and unfortunately by today’s standards and practices, Winston Vasser’s death would not have been filed immediately as a suicide. For example, these days we check for things such as gunshot residue on the victim’s hand, the trajectory of the bullet, hair and fiber analysis of the area around the body, etc. When Winston Vasser died, the police relied heavily on circumstantial evidence. Since there was no record or testimony from anyone within the family stating any conflicts with Winston, it was accepted that he had committed suicide after the fallout with his mistress.”

“So why are you here, detective, other than to open up old wounds?” Madison cut in, her arms crossed primly over her chest and her eyes hard as agate.

“If Winston Vasser did, in fact,
not
commit suicide then I am sure that all of you wish that the killer be brought to justice. I felt that the information provided by the letter was enough to at least do some digging and see if there is merit to it.”