become accustomed to Hugh’s solitary comings and goings and once I was satisfied they didn’t involve drugs, I relaxed.
I’d arrived at the St. Francis early and had just turned the corner from Geary when I spotted Hugh, his back turned to me, engaged in emphatic conversation with a tall old man. They’d talked for a moment and then the old man got into a silver Rolls.
Uncle John. John Smith.
That’s how Hugh referred to the old man, as Uncle John. But he wouldn’t tell me anything more and we argued over lunch about it.
“I’m protecting you,” I heard him say. Uncle John. That afternoon we made love. And then I woke up four hours later, rolled myself over onto my back and sat up. I was certain someone else was in the apartment. I switched on a lamp and made a lot of noise getting out of bed. Then, like a frightened child, I went, noisily, from room to room talking to the darkness as I turned on every light in the apartment. Eventually, I found myself standing in the middle of the living room. I was alone. I stood there for a few minutes, not feeling or thinking anything, not knowing what to do. Then, my stomach, which had been patient all day, roared and demanded food.
I rummaged through the refrigerator coming up with a shriveled apple and a carton of spoiled cottage cheese. In the end, I made my meal out of a bottle of Jack Daniels and a packet of peanuts left over from some long-forgotten airplane trip. I sat down to think. It seemed a waste of time to devise fancy theories about a crime when the evidence was barely sufficient even to establish that a crime had occurred. I believed Hugh had been murdered, but the basis of my belief consisted of Hugh’s unsupported assertions and Terry Ormes’ unrecorded observations. Clearly, I needed to know more about the Paris family and Hugh’s last few months.
The latter I would leave to Ormes — with the resources of the police department behind her, she could tap into the paper trail that we all generate as we go through life. As for the Paris family and Hugh’s relations with it, two names immediately came to mind, Aaron Gold and Katherine Paris. Then I drew a blank. Finally, a third name did occur to me. Grant Hancock. I turned the name over in my mind and mentally wrote beside it, “last resort.” Then I poured another drink.
The law office of Grayson, Graves and Miller, Aaron Gold’s firm, occupied the top three floors of the tallest building in town. A carpeted, wood-paneled elevator whisked me up to the twentieth floor and deposited me in a reception room the size of my entire apartment and considerably better furnished. A middle-aged woman sat behind a semi-circular desk, beneath a Rothko, manipulating the most elaborate phone console I had ever seen. Wading through the carpet, and between the heavy chairs and couches scattered around the room, I approached her and asked for Aaron. She took my measure with a glance and invited me to wait.
Instead, I walked over to a huge globe of the world and spun it. She cleared her throat censoriously and I drifted to the window. The window faced south to the foothills and beyond, where behind rustic stone walls and elaborate electronic alarm systems, the firm’s rich clients kept the twentieth century at bay.
Grayson, Graves and Miller was just another weapon in their armory. The receptionist called my name and directed me through the door beside her desk and down the hall. I went through the door and found myself looking down a seemingly endless, blue- carpeted corridor lined with closed doors. I heard a lot of frantic voices coming from behind those doors. The refrigerated air blew uncomfortably as I made my way down the hall looking for Gold’s office. This, it occurred to me, was my idea of hell. Just then, a door opened and Gold stepped out and came toward me. The stride was a touch less athletic today, I noticed, and the stomach muscles sagged a bit beneath his elegantly tailored shirt. He was tired around the mouth and eyes and his shaggy hair looked recently slept on.
As we stepped into his office, he instructed his secretary that we were not to be disturbed. On his desk was yesterday’s paper turned to the story of Hugh’s death. I sat down on a comer of the desk while Aaron stood irresolutely before me.
“I was going to call you,” he said.
“I’ve saved you the trouble.” I lifted a corner of the newspaper. “Hugh told me he was in danger of being murdered. I didn’t believe him.”
Gold said nothing.
“He even told me who the murderer would be, his grandfather, Robert Paris. A client of your firm.”
Gold shook his head.
“That can’t be true,” he said, unconvincingly.
“Then what were you going to call me about?”
Gold wandered over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself some scotch. He held the bottle at me. I shook my head.
“You got Hugh’s letters from someone,” I continued, “presumably the recipient. If Robert Paris is involved in Hugh’s death and you’re protecting him, you’re already an accessory.”
“Don’t lecture me about my legal status,” Aaron snapped. “I just want to talk.”
“I’m listening.”
“Judge Paris’s account is managed by the two most senior partners in the firm,” he began, “but there’s enough so that some of it trickles down to the associates. I’ve done my share of work on that account and I’d heard of Hugh Paris, knew he was the judge’s grandson. I’d heard he was bad news,” Aaron shrugged. “I really didn’t give it much thought.”
He sipped his drink.
“Still,” he continued, “when you told me he was in jail, I thought that was important enough to mention to one of the partners on the judge’s account. I thought we might want to do something for him.”
You did, I thought, but said nothing.
“I got the third-degree,” Aaron said. “The two partners questioned me for more than an hour. When they were satisfied I wasn’t holding back anything they explained to me that Hugh had made threats against the judge’s life. I was shown the letters and asked to report back to them anything else that I might learn from you of Hugh’s activities.”
“And did you?”
“Of course I did,” he replied, emptying his glass. “The partners had me convinced that Hugh was dangerous. They told me that he was a drug addict, that his father was crazy. There were disturbing reports from private investigators who’d been hired to keep an eye on him in New York. I not only believed Hugh was a threat to his grandfather but also to you.”
I shook my head. “You never met him.” Aaron wasn’t listening.
“But the more they confided in me,” he said, “the stranger it seemed that the judge would go to such lengths and to such expense to keep track of Hugh. It seemed completely out of proportion to any possible threat Hugh may have posed to Robert Paris.”
“And now Hugh is dead.”
“Yes.” He rose from the couch and went back to the liquor cabinet, pouring another drink. “Three days ago I had a meeting with the partners on the Paris account. They asked me a lot of questions about you — questions that contained information they could have got only by having had you followed.”
“What kind of questions?”
“They wanted to know the nature of your relationship with Hugh.”
“And did you tell them?”
“No, but I think they already knew.”
We looked at each other.
“Three days ago,” I said, “and the next day we had lunch and you tried to talk me out of seeing Hugh. And that night he was killed.”
“I swear I had nothing to do with that,” he said.
“But your client — the judge did.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Aaron said. “I’ve been doing some research. Something’s going on that goes back a long time and involves a lot of people.”
“You’re talking in riddles.”
“I can’t speak more clearly — yet.” He looked at me. “I’m going to stay here,” his gesture encompassed the entire firm, “until I find out. But I don’t want to see you. It’s not safe for either of us.”
