THE SNOW HAD been one of my favorite kinds, heavy and wet so that it clung to every spur of brick and cornice and transformed the warehouse district into tiers of frosted cakes. And the bright glare of the March sun was warm enough to melt it quickly so it did not have time to be sullied by the city’s grime. Below, dark slashes already cut the street down to wet asphalt as the morning trucks lined up for delivery and pickup, and an occasional shaft of melting snow spiraled down from the sun-glowed facades across the street. The snows of spring were far different from those of autumn, more festive, shorter lived, bringing blessed moisture and the soft green of leaves and grass, and signaling an end to the bone-gnawing cold that made it a struggle to walk outside. It was a welcome change, too, from the dust and wind and gritty, noisy streets of Riyadh where Bunch and I had spent the last six weeks. Loomis had promised me that working for McAllister would be a fine opportunity, and ever since the Haas case, the luck of Kirk and Associates had changed for the better. Right now, in fact, Bunch was out following up an inquiry from a brokerage firm for a personnel screening. Whether or not the job came as a result of telephone calls to Owen McAllister—”Say, Owen, can you recommend a good firm in executive security”—the good luck was nonetheless tangibly related to our work for McAllister and we accepted it gratefully. Even Uncle Wyn, on one of his visits, had watched with some awe as the old scarred desk was hauled away and the new one with its richly stained wood was carefully set in place.
“A new house for you—new furniture for the office. You’re making a real success, Dev. This Peeping Tom business, there must be some real money in it.”
“Industrial security, Uncle. Executive protection, electronic defense perimeters, the security of classified and proprietary information. We don’t do very much peeping.”
“Sure. Right. But it’s still good money. Tell you the truth, I never expected to be paid back.” He ran a finger along the edge of an oak bookcase that held shelves of legal and technological references. The finger had an awkward twist in it from being broken by a fastball in the minor leagues, one of a number of souvenirs from his years as a catcher. “Douglas would have been proud of you.”
“If Dad had hung on for a little while, I could have helped him. Hell, I could have helped him then—so could you. All he had to do was ask.”
“Don’t blame him, Devlin. Sometimes asking is the hardest of all. Besides, it was that professor—Loomis. He drove him to it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know how. I only know what I feel. I never liked that guy.”
Liking had nothing to do with a bullet in the brain—so permanent a solution to such temporary problems. And it had nothing to do with bringing back my father or telling him the things I never got around to saying. And of course he would never share any of this, either, which drained something of my satisfaction and brought me even closer to understanding those moments of quiet sadness in his eyes that had punctuated my childhood.
Through the busy rumble in the snowy world beyond the window, I heard the office door open and turned, expecting Bunch. But it wasn’t. Well-tailored, and well worth it, the woman smiled and there was something familiar about her black hair and especially the green eyes that studied me. “Mrs. Haas?”
She held out a hand. “I’m flattered that you remember. Owen McAllister told me how to find you. I wasn’t certain it was you standing there. I’m afraid I was somewhat disoriented that night.”
“Understandably. It was a tragic time.” A twinge of pain crossed those eyes and I changed the subject. “How are the children?”
“They’re doing all right—as well as can be expected. Thank God, children are resilient.”
“In time it will heal over,” I lied. She nodded and the brightness that had been with her suddenly dimmed as she remembered. I turned one of the chairs whose leather still had a new and unchafed look. “Please sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.” She sat and stared for a long moment at her slender hands, which were now ringless and gripped the purse that matched her gray suit. Even on the night of her husband’s death, despite the shock and dishevelment, she had been an attractive woman. Now that beauty was very clear, and made poignant by her melancholy. “I tried to get in touch with you earlier, but you were—”
“Out of the country. We had a client in Saudi Arabia—an oil company worried about the security of their executives.”
“I see.”
“I assume this isn’t a social visit, Mrs. Haas?”
“Well, I did want to thank you for your help that night.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“And to ask you something.” She looked up, her eyes still showing hurt. “I heard that my husband—that Austin—was suspected of taking the Lake Center and the Columbine proposals and selling them to the Aegis Group.”
I did not say anything.
“And I hear that you were investigating him.”
Leaning back in my chair, I looked at the scattering of items on the new desk: a file for papers, a glass bristling with assorted ball-point pens, a yellow legal tablet with a few scribbled notes, an appointment calendar, the latest copy of Guns Magazine.
“It is true, isn’t it?”
“That he was a suspect? Yes. Everyone who had access to the plans was a suspect. Everyone had to be. Why do you want to know?”
“There has to be some cause for what he did.”
“There was never any evidence that he was guilty.”
“Then who was?”
“We don’t know. Mr. McAllister closed the case just after your husband’s death.”
“Because he was sure Austin did it?”
“Not at all. He said the projects weren’t worth even the possibility of another death, and he didn’t want to take a chance on causing any more pain like yours.”
Her long fingers absently stroked the purse in her lap, furring the gray suede and then smoothing it again.
“But you were investigating Austin in particular when it happened, weren’t you?”
“That’s all in the past now, Mrs. Haas.”
“But you were.”
“Yes.”
“And he could have been guilty?”
“There’s no evidence.”
“I want you to find out.”
“What?”
“I want you to determine if he was innocent or guilty.”
“Mrs. Haas, there’s no purpose in this. Why not leave it alone?”
“Suppose he was innocent?”
“He probably was. I’ve told you, there was no—”
“We both know what it implies when a man shoots himself while he’s under suspicion. The children have already asked why their father did it. I don’t have any reason to give them. And I don’t want someone else telling them it was because he was a thief.”
“Who told you about your husband?”
“A friend who’d heard some gossip among the company wives. It’s only a matter of time before their children hear it—and then mine.”
“I see … “ I tapped the legal pad in line with the edge of the blotter. “Suppose—only supposing now—that he was guilty?”
The fingers stroked again before she looked up without flinching. “Then I will know why he did it. As it is, he’s assumed to be guilty anyway.”
“I don’t think I want this job.”
“Why?”
“If, some way, your husband found out about my investigation, then I may have contributed to his death.”
“If you won’t do it, I can get someone else. But they’ll have to start all over at the beginning. Mr. Kirk—Devlin—Austin did not steal those proposals. But even if it were possible, I know he wouldn’t have shot himself for something like that. He was a strong man, very strong. That’s why Owen hired him and promoted him so rapidly.”
Which circled back to the familiar question: Why did he do it?
And she seemed to read my mind. “Perhaps that’s what I’m really after, Devlin: to know.”
“Sometimes there is no explanation. Sometimes there’s only the question, and we never do find the answer.”
“Then I haven’t lost anything, have I?”
It took only a few minutes to explain the terms. I quoted fees and probable expenses, and explained that costs could easily go higher—hoping, of course, that she’d reconsider and back out. But she agreed without a pause and quickly signed the contract. Then she shook my hand and smiled at me with those wide, green eyes. “This means very much to me; I’m very grateful.”
I wasn’t so pleased. “I can’t guarantee either results or that you’ll like what I find. Are you certain you want to do this?”
“Yes. I want—I need—to know something definitive.”
I stared at the door as it closed behind her, aware of the faint scent that lingered, and then went over to the tall window and the white glare outside. I tried not to feel like it was a mistake to take the case. True, I was emotionally close to it—even after five months I still felt the worry that Haas had somehow learned he was being investigated. But Margaret was right: she could easily find another agency to do the work. And not only would they have to start all over, but, I told myself, they wouldn’t look after her interests as well as I would. Logically, despite the unease I felt about it, Kirk and Associates was the right choice.
“Dev—pull your head out, boy! Bang-bang! I could have been a whole Shiite terrorist team and you’d be worm shit by now.” The door slammed and Bunch set a paper sack on the desk and came quickly to the window to search the street below. “Man, there was one nice-looking broad downstairs when I came in. There she is: eyeball that.”
Below, Margaret picked her way across the ruts of wet snow to a Mercedes sedan and urged it gently through the snarl of trucks and out of sight.
“Why don’t we get clients like that, Dev? You know, ‘She came into the office with a walk that would have been banned in Boston.’”
“She doesn’t walk that way. And they don’t ban anything in Boston now. And she is our new client.”
“Oh?”
“And Susan would break your kneecaps if she read your mind right now.”
“Nah—she knows she doesn’t have to worry. Not that much, anyway. But what’s your problem? Your new house falling down? We get a client like that and you look like the Good Humor man with a flat tire.”
“She’s Austin Haas’s widow. She wants us to find out if he did or didn’t steal the proposals. If he didn’t, she wants to know why he committed suicide.”
“Jesus. We’re back on that again? That guy won’t stay buried!”