Private Eyes

She said, “They wait.”

“For whom?”

She shrugged.

The two of us crossed the entry. When we got to the room, she veered and kept walking toward the back of the house.

Glenn Anger and a heavyset bald man in his fifties were sitting in the overstuffed chairs, legs crossed, looking clubby. Both wore dark blue sack suits, white shirts and pocket squares, foulard ties. Anger’s cravat was a pink mini-print, the other man’s yellow.

When I was a few feet away they stood and buttoned their jackets. The bald man was six feet tall, with a power-lifter’s build gone slightly to seed. His face was square and beefy above an eighteen-inch neck, his tan every bit as good as Anger’s and the one Don Ramp had sported before life had ground him pale. The little hair he had was wispy and colored an insipid brown-gray. Most of it ran around the sides of his head and looked as thin as a greasepaint smear. A tiny, teased puff topped his crown.

“Well,” said Anger, “I suppose your work here is at an end.” Looking grimly satisfied. To the bald man: “This is one of the detectives hired to search for Gina, Jim.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “My name is Alex Delaware. I’m Melissa’s psychologist.”

Anger looked baffled. Then peeved.

I said, “Mr. Sturgis- the detective- is a friend of mine. I referred the family to him. I happened to be with him when we went to your office.”

“I see. Well, that’s-”

“Sorry for not clarifying, but given the urgency at the time, it didn’t seem important.”

“Well,” said Anger, “I suppose it wasn’t.”

The bald man cleared his throat.

Anger said, “Doctor- it is Doctor Delaware?”

I nodded.

“Doctor, meet Jim Douse, Gina’s attorney.”

One side of Douse’s mouth smiled. He shook my hand, exposing a monogrammed cuff. His hand was big and padded and surprisingly rough- weekends spent away from the desk- and he curled his fingers in a way that prevented much contact between our palms. Reserving judgment on how friendly he wanted to get, or the special care very strong men sometimes exercise so as not to inflict pain.

He said, “Doctor,” in a smoker’s rasp. The tips of two cigars protruded from behind his pocket square. “Psychologist? I use them from time to time in court.”

I nodded, wondering if that was an icebreaker or a threat.

He said, “How’s our little girl doing?”

“Last time I saw her she was resting. I’m on my way up there to check.”

“Cliff Chickering told me the terrible news,” said Anger. “This morning, in church. Jim and I came by to see if there was anything we could do. What a stinking thing- I never actually believed it would come to this.”

Douse looked at him as if introspection were a felony, then shook his head in a delayed show of sympathy.

I said, “Has the search been called off?”

Anger nodded. “Cliff said they stopped looking a few hours ago. He’s convinced she’s at the bottom of that dam.”

“He’s also convinced she put herself there,” I said.

Anger looked uncomfortable.

Douse said, “I’ve suggested to Mr. Chickering that any further theorizing should be backed up with fact.” Lifting his chin, he ran a finger around the interior of his shirt collar.

Anger said, “Damned accident is what it was, that’s obvious. She shouldn’t have been out there driving in the first place.”

I said, “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’m going to see Melissa.”

“Give her our condolences, Doctor,” said Anger. “If she’d like us to come up, we will. If not, we’ll be available whenever she’s ready to tackle the transition- just let us know.”

“What transition is that?”

“Transfer of status,” said Douse. “There’s never a good time for it, but it needs to be done as quickly as possible. Routine procedures, paperwork. The government giving itself something to do. Everything’s got to be followed to the letter or Uncle Sam gets his dander up.”

Anger said, “She’s too young to deal with it. The sooner we get everything squared away, the better.”

“Too young to deal with paperwork?” I said.

“Too young to deal with the mechanics,” said Anger. “The burden of management.”

“She should be doing other things with her life,” said Douse. “Wouldn’t you say that- psychologically speaking?”

Feeling as if I’d been beamed down to a Senate subcommittee meeting, I said, “You’re saying she shouldn’t manage her own money.”

Silence dropped like a theater curtain.

“It’s complicated,” said Douse. “Lots of inane regulations.”

“Because of the size of the estate?”

Anger pursed his lips and busied himself with a jumpy-eyed appraisal of the Old Masters on the walls.

Douse said, “Unless it can be shown to me that you’ll have an extended role in the matter, I’m not able to go into details with you, Doctor. But speaking generally, let me say this: Without concrete proof of an actual act of decession, it will take substantial time to establish the validity of the heir’s tenancy and rights and subsequent transfer of ownership of those rights and the concomitant property.”

He stopped and watched me. When I didn’t move, he went on: “When I say substantial time, I mean just that. What we’re dealing with, here, is multiple jurisdictions. Everything from local up to federal- because of the dynamics of the tax code. And that’s just in terms of basic transfer. It doesn’t even start to consider the whole issue of guardianship- guarding her rights. There are matters of proxy ownership, various fine points of estate law. And, of course, the IRS always steps in and tries to plunder whatever it can, though with the trusts that have been established, we’re on solid ground regarding that can of worms.”

“Guardianship?” I said. “Melissa’s reached her majority- why would she need a guardian?”

Anger looked at Douse. Douse looked back at him.

Ocular tennis match. The ball finally landed in the banker’s court.

“Majority,” he said, “is one thing. Competence is another.”

“You’re suggesting Melissa’s incompetent to run her own affairs?”

Anger returned his attention to the paintings.

“ “Affairs,’ ” said Douse, “doesn’t even begin to describe it.” He swept an arm around the room. “How many eighteen-year-olds would be competent to manage something of this magnitude? I know mine sure wouldn’t.”

“Mine neither,” said Anger. “Add to that the emotional stress. The family history.” He turned to me. “You’d have a good handle on that.”

It sounded like an invitation. I didn’t RSVP.

Douse touched his bald head. “From where I’m sitting,” he said, “both as her attorney and as a parent, my educated judgment is that her resources would be put to optimal use just trying to grow up. God knows it’s going to be hard enough, considering.”

“That’s for sure,” said Anger. “I’ve got four at home, Doctor. All teens or tweens- we’re going through the wringer. Major-league hormone alert. Give an adolescent lots of money, might as well hand them a loaded gun.”

“Do you have kids of your own, Doctor?” said Douse.

“No,” I said.

Both of them gave knowing smiles.

“Well,” said Douse, playing with a jacket button, “as I said, that’s about all I’m free to divulge, barring an extended role for you.”