In contrast to the one before, with Haskill’s cremation and a brief, grim visit to Rigby in the Santa Barbara County jail during which Paula informed him that she would be unable and for that matter unwilling to make his bail, this day was starting on a note of fun. She was dealing with business directly, and the waiting was over.
When she tapped on the window of the kitchen door of the Montecito house, Jerry was sitting at the table in one of Glenn’s old silk bathrobes the old man used to think made him look like his idol and putative buddy Hugh Hefner. Jerry, a good seventy pounds heavier than his late uncle, gave off more of an injured-swine-wrapped-in-a-plastic-tarp vibe, and his vulnerable look of hope at the sight of her provoked a tiny pang of empathy, easy to ignore. Nina opened the door and directed her to a seat and poured her a cup of coffee.
The house felt now as though it had sat empty for decades. Funny how she’d never noticed while Glenn was alive how musty and decrepit it had become. The wallpaper—slender, vertical white and canary-yellow stripes—was peeling at the borders, and nicotine stained the ceiling a dark, rusty color around the smoke alarm, though Paula knew for a fact that Glenn and Evvie had both quit cigarettes around the time Reagan was elected. “How are you holding up, Jerry?” she asked.
Bashful, Jerry looked down at his own coffee cup. “Okay, considering.”
Nina sat between them. “All right, Jerry, down to business.”
Jerry was confused. He looked first to Nina and, seeing no sign of sympathy, turned to Paula. She took his hands in hers across the small table and gave him a kindly nod and squeeze. The motor of the refrigerator, an avocado relic from the late seventies, cycled on, producing the only sound in the kitchen for a few seconds until Nina spoke.
“Jerry, it was a good try. If I hadn’t been awake, you might have pulled it off.”
He looked baffled and then terrified. Paula clasped his hands harder. “Ssshhh,” she said.
“I told the police about seeing Rigby here last night,” Nina said. “That will be corroborated by the security cameras, but it’s important that I saw him come here.”
Jerry nodded, his mouth open. More than ever he looked to Paula like an overgrown, prepubescent boy.
“I’ll be testifying under oath when this thing gets to trial, whether the defendant is you or Rigby. I’m perfectly happy to leave out the part where I sent him away without ever letting him in. Also the part where I heard a ruckus in your uncle’s room and saw you coming out.” From her bag beneath the table she pulled a SIM card, which she held between thumb and forefinger. “And I’ll leave this in my safe-deposit box.”
“There was a camera?” Jerry said.
“The only one from the old security system that still worked. I think the old boy liked to film himself with call girls, who knows. Anyway, don’t worry, I disconnected it and the cops have no idea it was ever there.” She waggled the SIM card. “You want this copy as a goodwill gesture?”
Wide-eyed, he shook his head no. This gambit had been a risk; there had never been a camera, but Nina was sure he wouldn’t ever have the stomach to watch himself snuffing out his uncle’s lights.
“But in order for me to perjure myself, Paula and I are going to need some things from you.”
The two of them proceeded to explain to him how it was going to be. He would make a significant cash investment in Paula’s brand-new real estate firm, and although the county attorney was certain to identify the funds Rigby embezzled from Haskill’s accounts as a motive for murder, Jerry would privately consider it a loan and forgive it. Nina would receive, as she and Jerry would both recall had been Haskill’s fervent but unwritten wish, the property, house and its furnishings. The “Kushik”—the third one, the one Jerry had seen—would go as planned to Haskill’s alma mater in St. Louis. This left Jerry, as Nina figured it, close to three million dollars in cash and securities plus Haskill’s ownership stakes in a dozen old television shows, half of which were still generating revenue.
“This is blackmail,” he said.
Paula smiled tenderly and again she squeezed his hands, slick and cold now with sweat. “Sweetie, you understand that a murderer can’t inherit from his victim, right? We’re doing you a favor.”
Nina nodded. “It’s true, you’re getting a hell of a deal here, Jer. Now I’ve taken the liberty of speaking to a lawyer who’d be happy to represent the estate, given that the original counsel is incarcerated. We’re meeting at his office on State at one p.m. for you to sign some papers.”
He sat there for a minute with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wet, then shrugged and drank the remnants of his cold coffee. “I guess it could be worse.”
Now their flight was descending into SFO, the paintings in the cargo hold below. A brief conversation with the art dealer had established that he was delighted to be dealing with the two of them instead of Rigby, whose legal troubles didn’t interest him any more than they would his Russian clientele. They were booked into the St. Regis for three nights, Danny was in charge of the house and his sisters while she was gone—their father’s situation had been explained to them but not in any detail, and with the strong implication that he was innocent and would surely be exonerated—and as the day progressed, she found that she liked Nina better and better. She was exchanging noncommittal texts with Keith and honestly didn’t much care how things went with him. Either way was fine. The future was hers to call, and once they’d split the money from the picture, she could take him or leave him.
“Where do you want to get dinner?” Nina asked.
“I don’t know, someplace corny in North Beach?”
“Fuck that, that’s for tourists. We’re getting something expensive tonight.”
She nodded. Sounded good to her.