Favors and Lies Read online

  “Just check it out.”

  “I will. And I have an update for you. I checked your nephew’s medical background. He did have multiple broken bones, most of them occurring during sports activities. A few trips to GU hospital. One each to GWU, Sibley, Holy Cross. The injuries were noted as accidents or sports-related. Child Protection Services did an inquiry and found nothing suspicious. So I guess your story checks out.”

  “Anything else in the medical history?”

  “Besides an abnormally high number of fractures for such a young man there is nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it for the medical record. But I did run into another problem with your story.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  “You won’t. You said your sister-in-law called you at roughly two in the morning the night she died.”

  “That’s right.”

  “There is no record of that phone call. There is no record of any phone call from your sister-in-law’s phone. None from her house phone. None from her cell phone. None from your nephew’s cell phone. Nada. Zippo.”

  “Did you check my phone records?”

  “Yes.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “Nothing. No call.”

  There was a long pause. “You still there?” the detective asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “I think we need to have another chat. You available tomorrow?”

  “Give me a call. I have an appointment with an attorney in the morning, but after that I’m free. I’m not hiding from you.”

  “I hope not Mr. Lord. In light of your story about receiving a phone call from your sister-in-law—evidence for which there is no record—I’m planning to reopen her case. And you’re at the top of my suspect list. Answer the phone when I call. Don’t make me come find you. You’ll like me a lot less than you do now.”

  Dan hung up the phone and thought for a moment. It is National Fuck You Day.

  Chapter 9

  —

  Dan crossed the street at the intersection of River Road and Wisconsin Avenue, a block up from the UDC-Tenleytown Metro Station. College students ducked in and out the coffee shops and family-run restaurants nuzzled in the cracks and crevices of large office buildings. Development was choking out the city’s character. Block-by-block, small shops were being overrun, consumed and digested by national chains with concrete façades and neon charm—Best Buy, Target, CVS.

  Dan found 4501 Wisconsin without a map or checking his coordinates. A five-story, mid-nineties office building with a faux stone exterior. Inside, a lone security guard sat behind a large concrete desk with his head down, entertained by the sports page and the match-ups for the upcoming weekend.

  “Pass through the metal detector,” the oversized-guard said momentarily glancing up. “Keys, cell phone, and all metal objects in the basket and on the conveyor belt.”

  Dan did as told, ducked through the rectangular opening, and reacquired his objects on the other side of the inconvenience. He entered the octagonal lobby and looked for the directory, spotting the list of tenant names on the board near the elevators. The sunlight coming through the glass lobby illuminated the white lettering.

  He put his finger on the suite number for the Parkson & Peterson law firm and rode the elevator to the top floor of the five-story building. Moments later he was seated in a book-filled office with a recently shined desk. The law firm’s secretary, a bland woman in a beige dress who Dan imagined was as boring in other aspects of her life as she was in her fashion, offered him a coffee and then disappeared, shutting the door and leaving him alone in the office. A large map of DC hung on the wall, a historical replica with artificially browned edges to give the new art piece faux antique ambiance.

  Moments later, Clyde Parkson opened the door and entered the room. The attorney had a smile fit for a toothpaste commercial. Huge white teeth, nearly oversized, filled his mouth and ran roughshod over other first impressions. His teeth flashed through his neatly trimmed goatee, like an animal revealing perfect fangs.

  “Mr. Lord. Nice to meet you. My name is Clyde Parkson.”

  “Pleasure.”

  “May I extend my sincerest apologies to you and your loved ones. I truly, truly regret that we are meeting under such unfortunate circumstances.”

  Dan noticed the southern twang. Not too far south. Not too hick. North Carolina. Maybe Georgia. Definitely not a DC native. Clyde was wearing a dark pinstriped suit with shoes almost as polished as his teeth and the desk. His black hair was perfectly coiffed. His eyebrows waxed. The wireframe glasses on his nose were German, new, and expensive. The combined perfection of the outfit, teeth, hygiene, and demeanor left Dan wanting, at the least, to put the guy in a headlock and give him a noogie.

  “Now, did you bring any documents with you?”

  “Just what my sister-in-law’s sister found in the house. She spent a few hours digging around and found copies of a will where you were listed as the attorney of record.”

  “Well, I’m glad your sister-in-law kept her records in a place where they could be found . . . to expedite the process.”

  “I imagine it would get done sooner or later.”

  “Sooner is always better, Mr. Lord.”

  “Call me Dan.”

  “I will. How about we start at the top, Dan? I’ll give you a rundown of where we stand and where we need to go, and you just tell me when you have any questions.”

  “That’s fine.”

  What transpired was more rambling than legal explanation.

  “As you know, the death of a loved one, or two in your case, can be a traumatic experience. On top of the grief, there are many loose ends to tie up. Loved ones may be gone and with the Lord, but that doesn’t keep Uncle Sam from reaching for his portion of the worldly possessions left behind. But rest assured that at Parkson & Peterson, we will do everything in our power to make sure the transition, at least on this side of the light, is a peaceful one. The financial and legal implications can be daunting.”

  “The probate process.”

  “I guess you are familiar with it then.”

  “My parents died a little over ten years ago.”

  “I see. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Although it is little consolation, the second time serving as the executor of an estate may be a little easier.”

  “It’s actually my third time,” Dan corrected.

  “I apologize for the assumption,” Clyde Parkson added. “Well, then, let me cut to the chase, so to speak. We have the will and final testament of Victoria Lord, signed last September. In that will, it gives the value of her entire inheritance to her son, Conner. Obviously, God had his hand in that equation and your sister-in-law’s sister is now the sole heir.”

  “I figured she might have written it that way.”

  “We have a pension from a previous employer, a 401k, and a home assessed for over nine hundred thousand dollars. Only twenty-two thousand remains on the mortgage balance. There is a stock portfolio with almost three-quarters of a million in it. There is another million in a term life insurance policy. It is likely that the life insurance policy is in limbo, pending the outcome of the investigation into her death. As you are aware, some life insurance does not pay out for a suicide. There is a common misconception that all life insurance doesn’t pay for a suicide, but that is not true. Most policies do indeed pay for a suicide, just not within the first two years. At any rate, once that nasty little piece of business is concluded, we can make the final determination on the size of the estate.”

  “The death was initially ruled a suicide. I’m planning to meet with the detective in charge again to revisit a few facts on the case.” Dan sounded agitated and the attorney seemed to pick up on the vibe.

  “And I judge that you dis
agree with the initial ruling.”

  “It’s irrelevant as to whether I agree. The ruling is what the ruling is.”

  “If the cause of death were virtually anything other than suicide, the estate could be worth considerably more. A million dollars more. It may be worth investigating. A million dollars is a lot of money.”

  “And of course you would get a cut.”

  “That is certainly not where I was intending to go with that conversation.”

  “What else do you need?” Dan asked.

  “We need an inventory of the deceased’s assets. Automobiles. Jewelry. Other properties. We need to confirm that all the potential heirs have been located.”

  “The entire family was here for the service.”

  “And did anyone express interest in the estate?”

  “Just the sister. The sole heir.”

  “No one else?”

  “My sister-in-law had one sibling. She was married to my brother. He passed away after my parents. He had one child. Conner. He also passed. There is nothing unusual in the progression of heirs.”

  “Are there any unexpected illegitimate children lurking in the weeds, so to speak?”

  “If they’re lurking out there, they’ve been lurking an awfully long time.”

  “Yes, yes. Just being thorough. It would be helpful to have copies of your sister-in-law’s most recent tax statements. And if she has a safe deposit box, we should look into gaining access to make sure everything is accounted for.”

  “I should have that by the end of the week.”

  “Once that is done, we should be able to complete the probate on the estate. All outstanding debts will have to be paid, as well as any potential inheritance tax. If there is any tax to be paid, it is generally due . . .”

  “Within nine months from the date of the death.”

  “You have done this before,” Clyde Parkson said from his chair on the other side of the desk. “Well, as there is a single heir and a nice estate, your sister-in-law’s sister stands to gain considerably. A financial windfall. Does this cause you any angst?”

  “None. My mother came from money. When my parents passed away, both my brother and I received a rather large inheritance.”

  “Just asking. Sometimes people take the news of inheritance, or lack thereof, hard.”

  “All things being equal, I would rather have my family back.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what was your brother’s cause of death?”

  “Cancer. Started as prostate and moved to his bones. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “It never is. Prostate cancer is more aggressive when it is discovered in younger men . . . from what I gather.”

  “So they say.”

  “Well, I guess you have your marching orders. If you would get back in touch with us regarding your sister-in-law’s latest tax information, as well as an inventory checklist, we will move forward. If you have issues gaining access to any safe deposit boxes, please contact this office.”

  “Anything else.”

  “Please let us know if you are contacted by any unforeseen potential heirs coming forth to stake a claim.”

  “I will.”

  “And let us know if the cause of death in your sister-in-law’s case is going to change. There is a million dollars of life insurance to consider.”

  “The cause of death isn’t likely to change without causing a few additional deaths,” Dan muttered.

  The attorney heard the comment, stood, and extended his hand. “Good day, Mr. Lord.”

  Chapter 10

  —

  Reed Temple stood next to the bare metal table in the tight white room. His jacket hung on the chair, the wrinkled top half of a tailor-made, single-breasted number he’d gotten in Bangkok while burning time on an assignment he could no longer recall. Reed Temple paced around the table, ran his fingers through his dark hair, and yearned for a cigarette, his pack of Marlboro’s waiting in the car. No lighters were permitted in the building. Ditto for matches. And unless an employee was willing to munch through the business end of a cigarette to get their nicotine fix, security achieved their no-smoking goal without prohibiting the real target.

  Reed Temple checked his watch. Three minutes late. Three minutes he would never get back. His patience ran naturally thin, a trait he inherited from his mother’s side of the family. He had always been a doer. He still had faint memories of early childhood and his mother’s voice floating out from the kitchen, shaking him from his daydreams, telling him “idle time is wasted time.”

  Fortunately, most of his time was absorbed by his hobbies and his job. In the middle, wedged neatly between interests and employment, was overlap. According to Reed Temple’s grandfather, his love of his work made him one of the lucky ones. Combine work and a hobby and you have a happy man. Throw in football on Sunday afternoons and the occasional roll in the hay, and you were describing nirvana.

  Reed Temple’s current unofficial job description was running hundred-million-dollar programs with nonsensical names like “Cranberry” and “Low Tide.” Wild-hair-up-the-ass ideas that got funded with unknowing taxpayer dollars and ended up on his “to-manage” list. For him, successful management was measured by two things: secrecy and status quo. Nothing else mattered. Secrecy gave him freedom. Maintaining status quo gave him a future. The number-one rule to government was not doing a job so efficiently you would eliminate yourself.

  But he missed the field. He missed the overseas assignments. The glamour of drinking dirty water and rolling the dice at fly-laden food stalls. He wanted back out. He had seen enough of the States. Give him an hour and he would be gone. South America, Asia, even Africa, God forbid.

  He had been sold on the domestic program management path as a fast-track up the political ladder. An express ticket to the seventh floor, the upper echelon of Langley. Or so he had been told. Three months into his assignment, he knew he had been lied to. Some of the blame rested squarely on his own shoulders. Wishful thinking. He was fully aware domestic clandestine assignments didn’t officially exist within the Agency. What he came to realize was because they didn’t exist, there was little interaction with management at HQ. The seventh floor, the people that made decisions and careers, didn’t discuss domestic programs. Reed Temple had volunteered for a position based on incomplete intelligence. It was the most prudent lesson he had received since his training on the Farm. It hammered home a simple lesson he had forgotten. Trust no one, particularly those above you.

  But the domestic assignments did have benefits. There was simplicity. He was given funding with no strings attached. From there, he simply had to point the ship in the right direction and not fuck it up. He was responsible for writing reports and ensuring evidence of his work remained on a secure server or locked in a filing cabinet at Langley or one of its sister buildings in Rosslyn, Springfield, or Vienna. The dark-windowed buildings with the American flags in the front but no names on the façades.

  But he was now standing in an unpleasant square chamber because he had fucked it up. The evidence to that fuck up had been removed from under the promenade in L’Enfant Plaza. And he imagined what was coming next.

  He stepped to the window and tapped his finger on the thick security glass lined with high-tech wire mesh designed to thwart eavesdropping. He looked out at the lunchtime traffic below, cars choking the road as they did in every nook and cranny of the DC area. The masses who know nothing, he thought. Ignorance is bliss. He couldn’t remember the last time he experienced that kind of bliss. He could barely recall a time when he didn’t know too much. And when you have done, seen, and heard too much, there was no putting the genie back in the bottle.

  He paced around the table one more time and moved closer to the two-way mirror on the far wall. He stared at the material, looking at the glass as if he wished hard enough he would see through it. Throug
h the charades. Through the bullshit shoveled by both sides. Just one small glimpse of truth.

  He was told the person behind the two-way mirror was his boss. As far as he knew, they had never met. Names were names, titles were titles, and reality didn’t interfere with either. For all he knew the two-way mirror was actually a no-way mirror. Such was the life he chose. A life of deception. Half of the job—and therefore half of life—was simply keeping your lies straight. And, of course, not fucking it up.

  The speakers in the corners of the room crackled to life and Reed Temple stepped back. “We can get started now,” the synthesized voice said from behind the glass. It was like taking orders from the automated voice on a customer service hotline. Not quite human. Not quite robotic. Reed Temple imagined he would recognize his superior’s real voice if he heard it without the disguise. The cadence. The lack of any emotion. The careful grammatical precision. The selection of inspiring vernacular like teamwork and patriotism. Words his boss embraced. Words most people wouldn’t be able to utter without someone questioning their sincerity.

  “Mr. Temple, could you enlighten me on the current status of our situation?”

  “How many are in the audience?”

  There was a pause, silence, and then Reed Temple heard breathing escape from the speakers.

  “I am alone.”

  Tisk, tisk. There are at least two of you. It doesn’t take seconds to check with yourself.

  “Please provide your update,” the synthesized voice stated.

  “The boy is dead, as is his mother.”

  “As previously reported. The mother’s death has been designated as unnecessary collateral damage. Is there any additional information as to what transpired?”

  “There was an emergency. Based on that emergency, there was fear the boy could have ended up in the public domain. Interaction with authorities.”

  “What could he have told them?”