As stewards of the Linden fortune, their economic interests frequently converged and were too important to allow personal feelings to stand in the way of greater enrichment. Nonetheless, Grant had spoken as if the enmity between the two ancient tycoons was public knowledge.
All this made Smith a potential ally. Someone in Robert Paris’s retinue had killed Hugh and Aaron. I could not interest the police in pursuing the investigation but Smith, with his money and influence, could. What remained was to make an appeal to him. I needed entree into his world. Once again I would have to rely on Grant Hancock whose family, though perhaps poorer, was as distinguished as Smith’s.
I picked up the phone and dialed Grant’s number.
Grant was at work. I reached his secretary who made it clear to me that unless I was a paying client I could leave a message. Finally, after lengthy negotiation, she agreed to give Mr. Hancock my name. He was on the phone a moment later.
“Henry, I was going to call you. I just heard a very disturbing rumor about Aaron from one of our classmates who was working on a case with him.”
“It’s true, Grant. Aaron’s been murdered.”
“Jesus.”
“And I was arrested for his murder and spent half the night in jail.”
“What?”
“And the same day he was murdered, someone broke into my apartment and stole the letters that Hugh had written to his grandfather. Aaron called my apartment while the break-in was in progress. He said he had information about Hugh’s death. Whoever was in my apartment — and I think it was Hugh’s killer — heard the phone message and tried to erase it. Then the killer went to Aaron’s. When I got to Aaron’s house, he was dead.”
“Wait — Hugh’s killer killed Aaron? The judge killed Hugh.”
“No, the judge had Hugh killed. An important distinction, Grant. The man who did the actual killing is still at large and probably in a panic since the death of his employer.”
“Didn’t you also just say you’d been arrested for Aaron’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“How did that happen?”
“I was holding the gun.” I heard Grant make a noise, and I explained how it was I came to be at Aaron’s house when the police arrived. I also told him that the police were treating the case as a burglary and that the district attorney considered any other interpretation of the events leading to Aaron’s death unprovable.
“But you think differently.”
“Yes.”
“I was afraid of that. I take it, then, this is not a social call.”
“Grant, I’ve respected your wish to be left out of this, until now.”
“Is that the sound of chips being cashed I hear?” he said.
“The police are prepared to write off Aaron’s death the same way they wrote off Hugh,” I continued, ignoring his joke. “I want to make contact with John Smith.”
“You’re obsessed with Smith,” Grant said. “He’s just a private citizen — albeit a rich one.”
“Money makes things happen,” I replied, “and if even you feel intimidated by John Smith, imagine his effect on a chief-of- police. Or the mayor.”
There was a thoughtful silence on the line.
“First,” Grant said, “you’ll have to engage his attention.”
“All I want is my foot in the door.”
“I’m going to put you on hold,” Grant said, and the line went blank. Five minutes later he came back on. “Sorry,” he said, “I had to make a call. I want you to call this number and ask for Peter Barron. He’s one of Smith’s aides at Pegasus.”
“At what?”
“Pegasus. Smith’s corporate flagship. A holding company.”
He gave me the number. I thanked him. We hung up.
A company that owns companies. That’s how Terry Ormes had described the corporation that held title to the house in San Francisco that Hugh had leased and was living in at the time of his death. Pegasus Corporation.
I dialed the number Grant had given me.
“Good morning. Mr. Barron’s office,” a woman said.
“Is Mr. Barron in?”
“Yes. Who may I say is calling?”
“Henry Rios.”
“May I tell Mr. Barron what this call is in reference to?”
“Hugh Paris,” I replied.
“One moment.” I was back on hold.
“Good morning, Mr. Rios,” a male voice said. For the briefest moment I thought I recognized the voice.
“Mr. Barron? I’m a friend of Grant Hancock. He gave me your number-”
“How is Grant?”
“He’s fine. Look, I have some information about Hugh Paris’s death that I think might interest your employer, Mr. Smith.”
“Such as?”
“Hugh was murdered at the direction of his grandfather, Robert Paris, and whoever performed the killing is still at large.”
There was a long skeptical pause. “I see,” he said finally. “Have you shared this information with the police?”
“The police take the position that Hugh’s death was accidental.”
“Oh, is that the position the police take?” His tone was mocking. Once again, his voice sounded familiar. “Well, Mr. Rios, I doubt that Mr. Smith is in any position to do what the police can’t or won’t do. He was deeply affected by Hugh’s death, and I think, at his age, he should be spared these speculations which would only make Hugh’s loss harder to accept.”
“It’s not speculation. I have proof.”
“Mr. Rios, give the old man a break. He doesn’t need to hear that members of his family killed each other off. Take your story back to the police or, better yet, keep it to yourself.”
Switching to a different tack I asked, “Who arranged for the lease of Hugh’s house from Pegasus?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hugh leased his house from Pegasus. Who was his contact there?”
“Pegasus isn’t in the real estate business.”
“I saw the lease.”
There was silence on the other end. At last he said, “Can’t be. Look, Henry, I really must go.”
“Have we ever met?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied, sounding, I thought, nervous.
“I know your voice.”
“Well, maybe we’ve met through Grant. Goodbye, Henry.”
The line went dead.
A moment later I was back on the phone to Grant asking him what Peter Barron looked like.
“I’ve only seen him a few times. He’s about our age. Blond. Handsome. Gay.”
Blond, good-looking — that’s how Aaron’s neighbor described the man he saw in Aaron’s yard the night of the murder. Was that also the man I saw? I closed my eyes, but I was unable to picture the face. Still, his hair — it was blond, wasn’t it? And I knew I had seen him somewhere before.
“Gay?” I asked Grant. This, too, seemed significant.
“I’ve run into him at Sutter’s Mill,” he said, naming a bar popular with professionals. “Did he say something to you?”
“No, nothing like that. Is there any chance I might’ve met him through you?”
