I was still in the shower at a quarter past seven Wednesday morning when the phone started ringing. It kept ringing while I shaved and got dressed. Shaving took a little longer than usual because of the gashes on my left cheek, courtesy of whoever blew up Helen Emerson. When I stopped in the kitchen for a light breakfast--scrambled eggs and wheat toast--a glance at the digital display on the recording machine told me that there were seven messages. I pressed the play button and listened. The first was from Hal Gross, begging me to call him right away. The rest were from various other news hounds, including the Post and a few local television stations. Even with an unlisted number, they'd managed to find me. One out-of-state tabloid even offered to pay me "a very considerable amount" for an exclusive interview.
Shaking my head in disgust, I locked up the house, set the burglar alarm, and headed downtown. By eight o'clock, I was stowing my car in its reserved space under the McGaa Building and heading for the elevators. The building, located at 16th Street and Arapahoe, was named after William McGaa, one of Denver's early citizens, who reputedly was quite fond of liquor.
The phone calls at home should have warned me what was waiting for me, but I had other things on my mind and foolishly let my guard down. The moment the elevator doors slid open on the twenty-ninth floor, I realized I had walked into a buzz saw. Someone shouted, "That's Larsen," and a throng of people moved forward to engulf me. There must have been two dozen of them: video crews from channels two, four, seven and nine, CNN and Fox, and miscellaneous other organizations that I never did manage to identify. The questions came in rapid-fire.
"What were you doing at the Emerson mansion?"
"Can you describe the explosion?"
"Were you the one who found the body?"
Those were the questions I heard. The rest were lost in a blur of noise. I shook my head. "Sorry, folks. I can't answer your questions." I took a step forward.
"Who killed her?" another said. "Was it the miner's union?"
I shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Better, probably. Now, if you'll excuse me--"
"Just a few more pictures," said a man with a digital camera. "Please?"
I smiled. "Could I stop you, if I wanted to?"
He grinned and flashed a shot. "No."
Other reporters also shot pictures. Half a dozen video cameras followed me as I moved toward the door marked Adam Larsen & Associates, P.C. I was fishing in my jacket pocket for my keys when I spotted Diana Hollister, watching me through the glass doors. She nodded meaningfully as her right hand reached to press the button on her desk. The timing was perfect. With a quick motion, I was able to jerk the door open just far enough to pass through, and pull it shut behind me.
Diana looked crisp in her blue blazer and plaid skirt. As always, her white hair was perfectly coiffed. "Good morning," she said. "I tried to warn you, but you didn't answer at home and your cell phone was turned off." She gestured toward the hallway. The photographers and videographers were taking pictures of us through the glass doors. "If you think that's bad, wait until you see all the phone messages." She handed me a thick stack of pink slips. "This is what comes of your penchant for finding dead bodies."
I could tell that she was upset about something. "We've had reporters here before, Diana. We can manage--"
She folded her arms crossly. "This isn't about reporters. It's about you. Adam, you could have been killed! Even a cat only has nine lives. You must be on number seven or eight. Look at your face!"
I reached up self-consciously to touch my cheek. "Diana, I had no idea that anything like that was going to happen. I--"
"You knew she was fighting with the miner's union. Maurice says he told you that. You could have told her--"
"Maurice talks too much," I said.
Throwing her arms up in disgust, she said, "Why do I even bother? You're never going to change, are you? Speaking of which, Josie called. I haven't written up the message yet. She needs to cancel lunch. Some problem with a closing." She added pointedly, "Again."
I sighed and said, "As my grandfather used to say, there's no greater fool than a man in love."
She gave me a frosty smile. "Then you must really be in love."
I thumbed through the phone messages as I ambled down the hallway toward my office. Several were from local radio stations. Others had gotten cute and were trying to sound like potential clients. It didn't matter. There was no way I was going to call any of them.
Except, of course, Hal Gross. He would never forgive me if I didn't.
"Good morning, Counselor," he said churlishly. "It's about time you returned my call."
"Consider yourself lucky that I'm calling at all. When I got to the office, I was mobbed by reporters."
"I hope you didn't tell them anything important," he said, sounding worried. "I'm counting on a scoop."
"You know you'd get it, if I had anything to say," I assured him. "But I don't."
"But you'll still give me an interview, won't you?"
"Hal, I honestly have nothing to say. Maurice and I had taken no more than two steps into the house when the bomb went off. We ran upstairs and found Helen Emerson. End of story."
"You know that's not the end of the story," he said. "That's just the beginning. And you've left out dozens of important details."
"I read this morning's Clarion, Hal. There's nothing I know that Stone hasn't already--"
"Stone didn't mention anything about Maurice smelling Detoneatine," he said.
"Okay, so you've got other sources. I can't tell you what she wanted to meet with me about because she never told me. I couldn't even if she had. And of course I can't tell you who killed her because I have no clue. I can't even tell you what the specials of the day were at Aubrey's last night, because we never made it there."
We talked for another fifteen minutes, as Hal tried in vain to extract something he could print. By eight-thirty, I was sprawled out on the couch in my office, forcing myself with mixed success to read a memo from my law clerk when Diana beeped me on the intercom.
"There's an Andrew Emerson on line two. He says he's Helen's son."
"Well, well," I said, as an odd shiver pulsed down my spine. "The plot thickens."
"Isn't it already thick enough?"
I pressed the line two button. "This is Adam Larsen."
He spoke in a nervous, halting voice. "Mr. Larsen, this is Andrew Emerson. I guess you know about my mother's getting--sure you do, what am I saying? You were there. I'm not thinking too clearly today, am I? I'm sorry if I don't sound very coherent, but it's been a very--"
"I understand, Mr. Emerson," I said. "What can I do for you?"
"I--that is, we--would like to hire you to represent us. By we, I mean the Emerson children. Claudia, Joyce and I. Or me. I never get that right. We're the joint executors or whatever they call it under mother's will. At least, I think we are. I haven't actually seen the will. But I assume that we are. Anyway, we'd like you to act on our behalf."
I took a moment to consider it. The only will I had ever probated was in 1999 and it was a small uncontested estate--and there were special reasons why I got involved at all. Helen Emerson's estate wasn't likely to be either small or uncontested.
I decided to take the high road. "I'm not an estate attorney, Mr. Emerson. The lawyer who drafted her estate plan would be the logical person to--"
"I'm afraid not. He retired years ago. I think he moved to Arizona. Her new lawyer, well, there are other issues involved which make things rather complicated. I really can't discuss them over the phone."
I sighed. Was everything this family did so secret that they couldn't talk about it on a telephone?
He said, "Would you be willing to meet with us?"
"All right," I said. I could always bring in an estate specialist, if necessary. I glanced at my calendar. "I could see you this afternoon."
"How about three o'clock? I'd say sooner, but my office is here in Briggsdale. I don't mind driving down to Denver, but I've got some things I need to do here before I can leave. I hope it's okay with you if--"
His chatter was getting irritating. I said, "Three would be fine."
"Great! Is there anything you want us to bring?"
"For now, just the will. It needs to be filed with the probate court as soon as possible."
"We can't. Bring the will, that is. We've never seen it. We don't know even where it is."
"You don't know she kept her will?"
"No. Not even have a clue."
"Where did she keep her valuable papers?"
"I'm not sure. I know this sounds odd, but Mother would never talk about things like that. Not even to her own family. Can you imagine that? Her own flesh and blood. I'll do my best to find it, but I won't be able to really look around the house until the police let us back inside. But it's still okay if we meet this afternoon, isn't it?"
"I'll see you at three."
* * * *
A few minutes before noon, I headed out to the reception area. Diana was seated at her desk, her fingers clicking away on her keyboard.
"Leaving for lunch?" she said without looking up.
I nodded. "Probably Sandie's."
"You know, with all the commotion this morning, I nearly forgot to ask. Did you happen to read the obituaries in this morning's Clarion?"
"No. I don't read that part of the paper."
"By the time you reach my age, you will. You begin to see people you know. One name seemed familiar, but I can't put a face to it. Max Deacon."
"Deacon?" I didn't even have to think about it. "He was a private detective. He helped us in the Preston case a few years ago." I had also consulted him about a private matter of my own, but I didn't see any reason to mention that.
"Now I remember," she said with an amused expression. "You talked him into dressing up as a bag lady to prove our client wasn't the one stealing company secrets."
"That's Max. I really liked him. What did he die of? He couldn't have been older than--"
From behind me, Maurice's voice interrupted, "Who, Max Deacon?"
"Yes," I said. "Diana says there was an obituary in--"
"Yeah, I read that. He was forty-eight."
I eyed him. "You read the obituaries?"
"Sure. Doesn't everybody?"
I shrugged. "I don't."
"Well, you ought to," he told me. "It might broaden your perspective."
"I'll pass on that. What happened to him?"
"The paper didn't say."
"What about the funeral?"
Diana had reached under her desk and was paging efficiently through the Clarion. "One o'clock tomorrow afternoon." She raised a brow. "Are you interested?"
"I might be. I thought a lot of Max. I'd like to know what happened to him."
"Then go to the funeral," Maurice advised. "Meanwhile, I'm starving. Did I hear you say you're headed toward Sandie's?"
I nodded. "Let's go."
Sandie's was a little sandwich shop on Curtis Street, nestled between a flower shop and a custom men's clothing store. It couldn't be classified as a hole-in-the-wall because there weren't any such things left in downtown Denver. Time and real estate rates had upped the stakes to the point where all of the good dives had been forced to move out. Like all of the regulars, I knew that the little deli had never been owned by anyone named Sandie. The current owner was a plump brunette named Harriet O'Reilly, who had a friendly face with a small oval-shaped birthmark on her left cheekbone.
She greeted me with her customary, "Howdy do, Mr. Larsen?" and guided Maurice and to my favorite table, in front of the window facing out onto Curtis Street. From there you could watch the parade of lunch hour pedestrians, all sizes and shapes and all walks of life. We got ourselves seated and I let my gaze wander outward. Since it was late March, and very cold outside, people were bundled up in their bulky winter coats.
When the waitress came, I ordered turkey on rye--with regular mustard, not one of the pompous brands--and a bowl of Harriet's spicy onion soup. Maurice chose hot pastrami and a double order of fries. I had long since given up wondering about his cholesterol level.
While we were waiting for our food, he said, "Diana says you were swarmed by the media this morning."
"I was. I told them I couldn't answer their questions."
"Good decision," he said. "Reporters have a habit of twisting comments you think are innocent into something that winds up being controversial. Believe me, I know. It's like living in a fish bowl." I understood. Maurice had received his share of bad press when he was playing for the Broncos. "Speaking of media types, have you talked to Hal Gross?" he said as the waitress returned with our lunch.
I nodded. "This morning. Why?"
"Just wondering if you've heard anything about who killed the Empress. And could have killed us. I was thinking about that all morning."
"Me, too. But no word yet. I haven't even heard from Stone. The only news is that her son, Andrew Emerson, called this morning. I'm meeting with him this afternoon."
His face showed interest. "About the murder?"
"No. He needs help probating his mother's estate. Although he did say he has some other 'issues' that he says are complicated. But he can't talk about them on the telephone. Just like his mother."
"Sounds interesting."
"Could be. I'll keep you posted."
After we finished eating, I told Maurice there was an errand I wanted to run and I let him head back to the office alone. I rode the free RTD shuttle to the Broadway terminal, at the east end of the 16th Street Mall. Then I hiked the three blocks to the main branch of the Denver Public Library. I passed the security desk and rode the elevator to the fourth floor where they kept the back issues of the Clarion. Most of the information I needed was too old to Google or Bing.
I figured that if I was planning to work with the Emersons, I'd better find out everything I could about them.