Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (12 page)

Always gives me a funny
feeling to have someone else at my face and throat with a blade.
But I tried to relax and enjoy it, thought I could use the shave as
a cover for some pointed conversation. That did not work though.
Every time I tried to frame a word in the mouth, Hai Tsu gently but
quickly shut it off with a finger at my lips as if to say "no
talking during shaving, please." I had no desire to lose chunks of
nose or lip so I took the advice and held my silence until she'd
finished.

Best damned shave I'd ever had. She kept me
under warm towels for a minute or so afterward, then finished off
by massaging a cooling balm into the skin.

"Breakfast now, Shen?" she inquired happily,
as though that would really make her day.

I was hungry, yeah, but it could wait. I
asked her, "Can you read English?"

She jerked her head in an
enthusiastic nod, replied, "Oh yes, read English good. Hai Tsu read
for Shen?"

I handed her the power of attorney and said,
"Hai Tsu read for Hai Tsu."

If indeed she read that paper then she is
the fastest speed-reader I've ever seen at work. She merely glanced
at it and handed it back.

"Yes, Shen?"

"Read it."

"Yes, Shen." As though to say, "How many
times, dummy?"

I asked, "You read it?"'

"Yes, Shen."

"Then tell me about it."

"Is confirmation. Shen is here when not
here."

Wait a minute! I was getting a whole new
slant on that piece of paper!

I said, "It authorizes me
to sign his name on legal documents."

She said, "Yes. And also act, be, do in
every way as though Shen is in your body."

I was getting the Shen now too.

And the full Shen treatment!

"No, wait," I protested lamely, "a power of
attorney is used to..."

After a moment of respectful waiting for me
to finish the thought, Hai Tsu finished it for me in her own way.
"You are Shen."

So I thought, well okay, what the hell, why
not.

"Thanks," I muttered. "I'll, uh, be down in
about ten minutes. Breakfast outside is fine. Two eggs medium,
bacon if you have it."

"English muffins." She twinkled at
me—confirming, not inquiring.

I replied, "Yes, crisp and dripping," but I
knew she already knew that too, somehow.

I let her get to the door before I called
her back and asked her, "How well did you know Sloane?"

“
This Sloane, not know,”
she replied.

"You saw him yesterday for the first
time?"

"First time, yes."

"You knew his father?"

"Yes. Many year."

I looked at that bright, beautiful face and
wondered how it could have known anything at all for "many year"
unless it began in childhood.

I wanted to push the thought a bit further.
"And his father's father?"

"Yes, Shen."

Well damn it.

"How did you guys work this? I mean, did the
Sloanes do all the banking and other financial matters? Where do
you get your household money?"

"All is provided, Shen," is all she was
prepared to tell me about that.

I knew that further questioning in this vein
would not advance me beyond that blank wall, so I just dropped it
for the moment and let the beautiful Oriental enigma go on her
way.

Which does not mean that I did not have a
thousand or so questions awaiting answers. The whole thing had
taken a decidedly ominous twist—from the mysterious to the macabre
maybe—and I was feeling entirely uncomfortable about a lot of
things, the power of attorney among them.

Like, what the hell good was a power of
attorney for a man who should be dead these hundred or more years?
Death wipes away that power. So how did Valentinius—if I knew what
I thought I knew—intend that I use it?

I thought of something he'd said to me at
Malibu: "You are the man for me, Ashton."

The man to do what?

Hai Tsu told me, "You are Shen."

Bull
shit
I was Shen!

I was Ashton Ford, think you, and intended
to stay that way. But, as I looked around me at that fabulous
master suite loaded with everything I could need or want in a home,
I knew and realized and understood that—for the moment anyway—I was
also Valentinius de Medici.

And that understanding shivered my
bones.

What's in a name?

For the moment, pal...me.

The law offices of Sloane, Sloane and James
occupied the musty second floor of an old office building in Santa
Ana, the county seat. The partners had evidently found no need to
put on a successful face. The furnishings, though entirely
adequate and functional, looked as old as the building. The only
modern touches were a small personal computer and a copy machine
sharing a cubbyhole with Mr. Coffee and his accessories.

The lady at the reception desk looked like
she'd come with the furniture, but she was sweet and
hospitable—insisting that I wait with coffee for my audience with
Claire Kelly, the legal secretary and office manager.

Ms. Kelly was about
seventy too, and obviously ran the joint. I think she'd been in the
john when I arrived, because she came in from the hallway while I
was on my second coffee and took care to replace a fobbed key on a
hook behind her desk, after which the reception sweetie glanced my
way and announced, "Mr.
Ford
is here to visit, Claire."

Mr. Ford sloshed his coffee onto his slacks
while pre-

paring to meet Claire's
enthusiastic charge-in-greeting. She cried, "Oh dear!" and went to
work on the damage with a paper towel despite my insistence that it
was okay. I think she made it worse, but I agreed with her when
finally she decided, "There, that's better. You must never let a
coffee stain set, you know."

It took a minute or two to get around the
inauspicious beginning, to get me properly and comfortably seated
at her desk, and to get her composed at the business side and
glowing at me in expectation of who knows what. She was a sweet
lady.

She said, "Well! Did you have a nice
conference with Mr. Sloane?"

"Yes, I—"

"Everything in order?"

"Perfect order," I assured her. "I
want—"

"It was such a shock but also such a
pleasure to see Mr. de Medici yesterday! I cannot get over that
man. I was telling Eunice, he hasn't changed a bit since the first
time I saw him, and that must have been... my goodness, all of
thirty years ago!"

I smiled and said, "Yes, amazing man."

"You tell him I want the name of his plastic
surgeon."

We laughed.

I said, "Have you heard from Jim today?"

She sobered as she replied, "No, he hasn't
come in yet." She glanced disapprovingly at the clock. "Not that I
should be surprised. Did you have an appointment?"

Sometimes I lie, when the cause is
right.

I told her, "Sort of informally. I told him
I wanted to

drop by and get a copy of the file. Perhaps I
misunderstood; I thought he would be here too..."

She waved a hand and set that matter
straight. "That would depend on his golf schedule. No need for you
to wait one minute, Mr. Ford, unless you just wish to discuss
birdies and pars and whatever it is they do with those little
balls. Jimmy would not know where to find the file anyway. Since
his father..."

I ventured into what I
perceived as a sore spot. “Well, he's still young. Maybe he'll take
hold and surprise you one of these days. What about the other
partner? Doesn't he...?”

"Well no, poor Mr. James has been an invalid
for more than five years now. He is still in the firm, but only
nominally."

I grinned as I asked her, "You don't play
golf with Jimmy, eh?"

She replied, "Goodness, I wouldn't even know
how to drive one of those dumb little carts they zoom about
in."

Ms. Kelly excused herself and went into
another room, reappeared a moment later with a legal folder tucked
beneath an arm, took it to the copy machine.

The other lady—Eunice I presumed—informed
me, "Mr. Thomas Sloane was a very good golfer too. It's all his
fault if Jimmy tries to run his practice from the golf course. That
boy was raised at the country club."

I shrugged and said, "Must be nice."

She said, "Well...we really have a very
limited practice. Mr. de Medici's retainer rather dictates
that."

Interesting idea. I said, "Dictates
what?"

"I hope I haven't spoken out of turn. I
assumed that you knew..."

I said, "Oh, yes, the limitation."

"And, after all, how many people around here
need legal specialists in estates and trusts?"

I smiled and said, "That's right."

"But we keep busy enough,"
she added brightly.

I looked at my hands and wondered what the
hell it was all about.

"Where is Thomas Sloane now?" I
inquired.

"He's at Windmere Hill."

Sounded like a convalescent hospital. I let
it rest right there, knowing that I could track it down if
necessary.

Ms. Kelly completed her chore at the copier.
She brought me a duplicate file, all properly assembled and bound
into a legal folder, placed it in my hands. I had produced
identification for neither of these ladies. They took me at my word
and face. And of course I'd been giving them a bit of help at the
subliminal level; no doubt they would not otherwise have been so
trusting and open with even a familiar client.

Ms. Kelly accepted another mental cue to
tell me, "No, dear me, I'm afraid I couldn't keep up, on a golf
course. Jimmy usually plays with his college friend, Henry."

It tumbled right out of a
flaring synapse: "You mean Hank...Hank Gibson."

"Yes. Nice boy. And a bit more ambitious
than Jimmy, I'm sure."

I said, "I thought they'd had a
falling-out."

"At least once a week," Ms. Kelly said
smilingly. "But it doesn't interfere with their golf game."

Maybe it had, this week.

But I did not wish to be
the one to break the news to these dear ladies.

I tucked the Medici file beneath a fevered
arm and got the hell away from there before someone else could do
so.

But I had not really "stolen" anything, you
know.

Hell. I had the power.

Chapter Sixteen: Goose Eggs

The de Medici file was very interesting, even
if not entirely enlightening. It was compartmentalized under
subfiles labeled the Retainer, the Grant, the Estate, and
Transactions.

The Retainer subfile
contained a ruling document dated November 18th, 1918. It empowered
Arthur J. Sloane, an attorney, to conduct business relative to the
preservation of certain real estate "and ancillary interests" on
behalf of Valentinius de Medici. It had a provision for
"successors in interest" to ensure long-term application, and
contained a "covenant" to the effect that Sloane and/or his
successors would restrict their legal practice as a condition of
the retainer. Apparently Valentinius had wanted assurance that his
own interests would not become suffocated under competing
interests within the firm—and he was willing to pay well for the
exclusivity. The annual fee for services was stated as "an amount
equal to seven-and-one-half percent of the latest assessed value of
the estate."

Go figure it. Seven and a half percent of a
million dollars is $75,000. Multiply that result by twenty or
thirty— the modern value of the estate—and it is not difficult to
understand why a law firm would gladly bind itself to a single
client.

What was not readily understandable was
why—with such a beautiful deal for the lawyers—they had allowed the
golden goose to become so legally endangered. I mean, all they had
to do with their lives was protect the estate that was enriching
them. Why had they not done so?

The Grant subfile offered
a possible clue. It contained the legal language necessary to
empower the attorneys for specific activities and to specifically
exclude them from others. For example they could disburse moneys
for routine maintenance and upkeep but could not authorize
alterations or modifications on their own. Another restriction had
to do with—"in no wise...undertake, implement, conduct, encourage
or support any legal proceeding which would have the effect
of"—changing legal ownership of the property.

I did not have the luxury
of time required to sit down and analyze the several documents of
that subfile—all in heavy legalese—but it was fairly apparent from
just a light scan that Valentinius had screwed it down rather
tightly.

The Estate subfile
contained the documents shown to me earlier by Jim Sloane—also
architectural abstracts for the rebuilding of Pointe House in 1921
and subsequent remodelings and renovations across the
years.

The Transactions section
brought a quiver or two. It was a detailed ledger of money flow
from Swiss numbered accounts to an international bank in Newport
Beach, and there were several entries per year from 1918 to the
present. The latest entry was several months old and reflected a
transfer of $3.2 million into the Newport Beach account; a related
subentry diverted 2.25 million of that to Sloane, Sloane and James
for "annual retainer."

Two and a quarter million per year sounds
like something worth fighting for, doesn't it. Or stealing
for?

Put it together. Seven and a half percent
per year gives you an amount equal to the whole thing every
thirteen years or so. So Sloane, Sloane and James had, in effect,
rolled it over five times already—and were still sitting astride
that golden goose. Forget what Pointe House may be worth on the
open market; it was worth far more as a producer of wealth for its
custodians. How would you put a fair market value on something like
that? If you had custody of the goose and someone approached you
with the intention of buying your right to the annual fee—how much
would you sell it for?