For Every Evil (15 page)

He’d seen Hale several times over the course of the evening, but felt slugging him in the stomach in the presence of so many witnesses might be counterproductive. Instead, he’d formulated a more reasonable plan of attack.

He was going to have a little chat with Charles Squire.

“Hey, Chuckie,” he called, finding him standing under the dining room arch. “Remember me? Ben Kiran?”

Charles lowered his chin and raised an eyebrow. “How could I forget?” He’d been talking confidentially to a young woman, his hand almost, but not quite, touching her face. Not much of a ladies’ man, thought Ben as he grabbed him by the arm and led him into a dark, deserted hallway between the back stairs and the rear entrance.

“Excuse us,” he said, smiling over his shoulder at the young woman. “I’ll bring him back in just a minute.”

“Take your time,” she said, giving him the once-over. She obviously liked what she saw.

“Hey, take your sweaty hands off me!” insisted Charles, a surprised look on his face as Ben shoved him, face first, against the wall, one arm pinned behind his back. “What are you doing?”

“I want some information.”

“Try the public library.”

Ben twisted the arm.

“Agh!”

“Just shut up and listen then.” He looked around to make sure they were alone. “I met a guy tonight by the name of Steve Nelson. Ring any bells?”

“Possibly.”

“I want to know what kind of game you and Hale are playing?”

“Game? On the contrary. I think Mr. Nelson may simply have made Hale a better offer.”

“How could he? We never settled on a final price.”

“Then … perhaps it boils down to personalities. Hale usually doesn’t hire thugs.”

On that last word, Ben twisted the arm even harder.

Charles grunted with pain.

“Have you ever had a broken bone, Chuckie? It’s no fun. I suggest you show a little more respect.”

Biting his lower lip, Charles gave a nod. “What do you want?”

“I want you to give Hale a message. Tell him I know what he’s up to. I’ve got a copy of a very interesting disk. The one he keeps in his safe.”

“The what?” His eyes grew wide.

“As I see it, Chaz, old boy, it’s
your
ass that’s on the line — because you left me alone in his office. You better be pretty persuasive when you tell your boss to drop Nelson down a manhole. I’m the only one who’s going to do that shoot. Got it? We’ll talk about money later. You understand, of course, that my services don’t come cheap. Especially now.”

Charles made a sour face.

“So? Are we perfectly clear on this?”

“Perfectly,” he gasped.

Ben let him go. To be honest, the guy gave him the willies. He was the only man he’d ever met whose expression was both vacant
and
piercing.

Charles rubbed his shoulder.

“Sorry about the arm, but I had to get your attention. You know, Chuckie, you could be in some pretty hot water. I suggest you play your cards very carefully. Unless you do, by Monday morning, you might just be out of a job.”

Hale stood between two men in business suits, staring up at the picture of Piero della Francesca on the mantel. “Actually,” he continued, sucking in his stomach, “very little is known about the man’s life. He was born about seventy miles southeast of Florence. Worked mainly for the monasteries, confraternities, and country lords.”

“No Medici?” asked one of the men.

“Not as far as we know. Surprisingly, after his death he was revered less as a painter than as a mathematician. He was very interested in solid geometry. Even wrote a treatise on perspective.”

“Fascinating,” muttered the other man. “Has much of his work survived?”

“A few paintings. Religious themes, of course. Mostly in Tuscany, Umbria, and the Marches. Ivy and I made a special Piero Pilgrimage about ten years ago. It was absolutely marvelous.”

“Did you use a travel agent?” asked the second man.

“We did. There’s a woman in town who specializes in art tours. Here — I’ll write down her name for you.” He spotted his copy of the most recent IAI catalogue resting on the coffee table. He’d been carrying it around all evening. As he picked it up, a piece of paper slipped out from between the pages and fell to the floor. Hale put his foot over it as he wrote down the information on the cover flap. Then, tearing it off, he handed it over.

“Well,” said the first man, “I think I’d better go find my wife. We’ve got to be up early tomorrow morning.”

“Same here,” said the second man. “Hale, this was a wonderful party, as always. Thanks again.”

They all shook hands.

Hale watched their backs disappear into the crowd and then bent down to retrieve the piece of paper. As he turned it over he noticed it was a drawing. Instantly his body froze.

“Something wrong?” asked Louie, walking up to him from behind. He was holding a plateful of food. ‘Ivy asked me to find you and tell you she needs a word right away. It sounded important.”

Hale ignored him, his eyes transfixed by the image on the paper. “He’s here,” he whispered under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hawks!”

“Hawks who?”

“Oh, shut up. I’ve got to think.” He looked up and saw John Jacobi standing near the front windows talking to that son of Sophie Greenway’s. Who invited them? He felt the back of his neck break out in a cold sweat.

“Hale, old boy, you don’t look so hot.”

“Just leave me alone!” He started to back away.

“Where are you going?”

“To the gate house.”

“Are you all right?”

“Mind your own business.”

Louie took a few steps toward him. “But what should I tell Ivy?”

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a man, do you know that?” He cast his eyes furtively to the front door. ‘Tell her and that musclebound doctor of hers to go to hell!”

He bumped past Kate, who was standing just a few feet away, and stumbled into the kitchen. It felt as if all the air had been crushed out of his chest. He had to get outside. Clear his head. Once he was alone in his office, he could think. He knew he had to formulate a plan, and for that he needed quiet. His one trump card — the gun — was going to tip the balance in his favor. If tonight was really going to be the final confrontation, as the words under the drawing implied, let the bastard come! Whoever he was, Hale knew he was ready.

Rudy burst through the kitchen door and into the dining room, his eyes desperately searching the crowd for his mother. Spotting Bram sitting in one of the wing chairs in the living room, he let his gaze wash over the faces near the fireplace. There she was. Talking with a group of women. In an instant he was next to her.

“Rudy!” she said, giving him a hug. “John said you were here. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“We’ve got to talk.”

She could see he was breathing hard. “What’s wrong?”

He pulled her off to one side. “Something’s happened. You’ve got to come with me.”

“Why?”

“It’s … Just come, okay?”

She could tell he was upset. “What is it? What’s going on?”

He looked around the room, making sure their conversation wasn’t being overheard. “It’s Hale. He’s been shot. I think he may even be … dead.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “How on earth did
you
find him?”

“I’ll tell you later. Right now, you’ve got to come out to the gate house! That’s where he is. We have to do something! Call the police — get a doctor.” His eyes pleaded.

“Are you sure he’s dead?”

“I didn’t touch him, if that’s what you mean. But he looked …
still.
I couldn’t see him breathing.”

Sophie knew they didn’t have a minute to lose. She crossed to Bram and whispered in his ear, “Call 911 right away. Hale’s been shot.” She saw the shock in his eyes, but put a finger to her lips. “Don’t make a scene. Just tell the dispatcher to send a paramedic and the police right away. Then go find Ivy.”

He gave her a cautious nod, rising immediately and retreating into the far hallway.

“Come on,” said Sophie, returning to Rudy and grabbing him by the arm.

“But what about the police?”

“Bram’s taking care of it. Our job right now is to see if there’s anything we can do for Hale.”

“What’s this?” asked Sophie, noticing a piece of crumpled paper near the Micklenbergs’ back door. She picked it up.

“Mom, hurry!”

“Right.” She stuffed it into her purse and scurried after him. A wide path had been shoveled in the snow between the main house and the gate house. “How did you get in?”

“The front door was open.”

They dashed up the steps and into the first-floor gallery. The only light came from the door at the top of the stairs.

“Is he up there?”

Rudy nodded.

Sophie led the way. As they entered the room, she saw Hale’s body on the floor next to the desk. He was lying on his back, one arm flung to the side, the other on his stomach. “He’s been shot in the head,” she said, bending down.

“What should we do?” asked Rudy, fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket. He stood next to the door, unwilling or unable to come any closer.

Sophie tried to get a pulse. “I’m afraid,” she said, holding her fingers to the side of his neck, “he’s beyond help.” Slowly she stood, taking a moment to examine the scene. The murder weapon was nowhere in sight. The desk was empty of papers. A bottle of Scotch and a half-filled glass sat next to the computer. A cigar had been crushed in the ashtray and then broken in half. Nothing gave any clue as to what had just happened.

“How did you find him?” asked Sophie, turning to her son. He looked so terrified, she wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him like a little child — tell him everything was going to be all right. Except everything wasn’t all right.

“Well,” he began, his voice just above a whisper, “I’d gone outside for some air and I heard this shot. I looked up and saw the light and knew immediately it’d been fired from up here. So I tried the front door.”

“Did you see anyone?”

He shook his head. “When I got inside, the gallery was dark. I ran up the stairs and found … I mean, when I saw his body … I couldn’t move!”

She stepped toward him. “That’s fine. You were right to come for me. Now listen for a minute. We have to go back to the main house and talk to the police. Since you found the body, they’ll almost certainly ask you some questions. Do you think you can handle that?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Good. I know how awful this feels. I feel the same way. But you’ve got to recall everything you saw or heard. It could be terribly important.”

He nodded.

“You didn’t touch anything did you?”

“No,” he whispered. “I don’t think so.”

Even through his hunting jacket, she could feel him tremble.

Rudy was led through the crowd to a study on the second floor of the Micklenbergs’ home. After taking a chair by the only window, a detective named Cross entered, instructing a uniformed officer to stand by the door and prevent anyone else from entering. Another uniformed officer sat behind the desk with a pad and pencil, ready to take notes. Rudy was nervous, but since he’d had some time for reflection, he felt a bit more confident.

Detective Cross pulled up a chair and sat down. “Now, Rudy” — he glanced at his notes — “will you tell us what happened?”

Rudy took a deep breath. “Well,” he began, “I’d gone outside to get some air. The party was pretty smoky.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know. Probably close to eleven.”

“What time had you arrived at the party?”

“About ten-fifteen.”

“Alone?”

He hesitated. “No. I’d driven over with a friend.”

“What’s the friend’s name?”

“John Jacobi.”

The detective nodded. “Go on.”

“Well, I was standing out in the back, looking up at the sky, when I heard this gunshot.”

“How did you know it was a gunshot?”

Rudy stopped. “I don’t know. I guess I just assumed it. My father owns lots of guns. I’m familiar with the sound.”

“All right. Continue.”

Rudy didn’t care for the man’s abrupt manner. He reminded him of the vice principal of his high school in Montana. Crew cut, brown hair. Thick body. Military bearing. “As I was about to say, I was pretty sure it came from the gate house. I looked up at the second floor and saw a light, so I ran around to the front and tried the door. It was ajar.”