She felt every hair on her body rise, began to tremble uncontrollably.
Kara: “What’s wrong?”
From the phone, silence, but it was not dead, not empty.
Someone had answered.
Someone was listening.
-19-
Despite the fact that he was in his late fifties and had recently buried his only daughter, the man who answered the door was well dressed and healthy looking. He wore a light blue shirt with the top button unfastened, and a pair of dark pants, the creases sharp above a freshly polished pair of shoes. His dark hair had been recently barbered, and was streaked with gray, which made him look distinguished rather than old.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Mr. Kaplan?”
A curt nod. “Who are you?” He looked slightly annoyed as he appraised the man on his stoop, as if Finch had pulled him away from an important business meeting or a football game.
“My name is Thomas Finch.”
“Finch?”
“Daniel’s brother.”
Anyone who believed the theory that death forged a bond between those left to grieve had obviously never met John Kaplan. With a sigh he stepped back into the hall. “I suppose you want to come in?”
“I won’t take up too much of your time,” Finch said and entered the house.
Everything about the Kaplans spoke of money: from the gleaming silver Mercedes in the driveway and Tudor house set at the end of a long winding flower-bordered drive, itself a half-mile from the main road, to the sprawling yards, which looked vigilantly maintained, as if Kaplan feared his competitors would take the first trace of overgrowth as a sign of weakness. And then of course, there was John Kaplan himself. As he led him through a short, oak-paneled hallway with polished floors, Finch detected an air of intolerance about the man, as if he reserved his interest only for people who could benefit him or his bank account. He wondered if what he had come to say might change that, but then for a man supposed to be grieving, Kaplan looked awfully composed.
The hall ended and opened out into a large foyer stuffed to bursting with vegetation. Planters hung on chains hung from the vaulted ceiling, spidery green legs trailing down to meet the explosion of growth from what looked like a variety of wild and frenzied shrubs anchored in a huge rectangular marble tomb. Tall thin plants with glossy spade-shaped leaves and bamboo sticks lashed to their stems stood guard in the corners, struggling upward to where a segmented glass window threw squares of light against the wall.
Kaplan didn’t spare the jungle a glance as he turned left into another narrow hall. Finch followed close behind.
“Take a seat,” John said, as they entered a small but impressive lounge. In here sat a brown leather armchair, positioned at a right angle to a matching leather couch, as if the Kaplan’s interior decorator had aspirations of becoming a psychiatrist, or specialized in decorating for them. Sports and hunting magazines sat in a tidy pile atop a glass coffee table. The walls were lined with oak bookshelves, but Finch didn’t bother to scan the titles. He wasn’t much of a reader, and doubted anything he’d see there would be of interest.
“You’ll have a drink,” Kaplan said, and although it sounded more like a statement of fact than a request, Finch nodded and took a seat on the couch. The cushions yielded beneath him with a soft hiss. The lounge smelled faintly of cigar smoke.
“Scotch?”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
As Kaplan poured the drink from a crystal decanter into two smoked glass tumblers, Finch wondered how rehearsed and tired this whole practice was for the guy. How many people interested or connected in some way to the murders had stopped by here to console, or seek comfort in a kindred spirit over the past couple of months? Finch envisioned Kaplan leading the latter kind to this room, perhaps with the intent to numb them enough with alcohol that they’d be left with the false impression that he had somehow eased their pain for a time.
Kaplan set Finch’s drink down on the coffee table, then took a seat in the armchair. He sighed and took a sizable draw from his glass before studying his guest. “So, Mr. Finch. What can I do for you?”
Finch sat forward and clasped his hands. “I’m here to talk about what happened to the kids. To my brother, and your daughter, and their friends.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to.”
“I disagree.”
“That so?”
“It is.”
“Well if it’s all the same—”
Kaplan sat back and crossed his legs. He held up his glass, examining its contents as if it was something he had never seen before. “Mr. Finch—”
“Thomas.”
“All right, Thomas. It’s not my intent to be rude—though you’d be far from the first person to leave this house with such an impression of me—but I’m a busy man. If you’ve come here to reminisce about how great our kids were and how they had such a good time together, and to tell me as if it’s breaking news how goddamned awful it was what happened to them, I’m afraid all I can say is amen to it all and see you out. Does that seem cold?”
Finch set down his drink. “Until I can see my breath, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”
Kaplan smiled tightly. “I have to meet with my attorney at noon, Thomas,” he said, making the name sound like punctuation, “so the sooner you cut to the chase, the better your chance of a less terse reception.”
“I’m here to tell you my plans, so you know what they are, and to hear what you think. Maybe even to get your blessing.”
“Almost sounds like your asking for my daughter’s hand,” Kaplan said. “But as you know, I’m all out of those. My wife will be coming on the market soon though, if you’re interested.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Finch said.
“Don’t be,” Kaplan replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “This has made an addict out of her. If she’s not popping Valium, she’s out fucking the gardener. This has been a long time coming. At least something good came of Katy’s death.”
Finch frowned, embarrassed by the man’s candor, and quickly scooped up his drink.
“See your breath yet?” Kaplan asked, amused.
Finch ignored him.
“My wife and I haven’t loved each other in over ten years. In all that time she stayed with me for my money, fully aware that if we divorced she’d stand to get very rich very quickly and have her freedom on top of it. I stayed with her for Katy. But now Katy’s gone, and I can afford to lose millions.”
“Why?”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t yet know what it’s like to have the person you swore to love until the end of your days become your enemy overnight, to watch them with other men as they plot to destroy you. In my line of work, you
