“Hobnobbing with the rich and famous again,” teased Harry. “What the hell is Johnston worth?”
“Christ.” Mercer combed his fingers through his thick hair. “He owns Petromax Oil outright, plus he has control of the Johnston Trust established by his father when he started Petromax. I’d say a couple billion dollars, maybe more.”
“Find out if he has an eligible daughter.” Harry paused and reconsidered. “Hell, for that kind of money find out if he has a toothless grandmother who wets herself. I’m not fussy.”
“For your sake,” Tiny added, “I hope he does so you can pay back some of your bar tab.”
Harry shot him an innocent look.
Mercer laughed. “I’ve got to go. The dinner’s at six and the reception starts at eight-thirty. I want to be the first in line at the bar.”
He walked home slowly. The day had turned out to be milder than expected, and the humidity seemed to be held in check by the angry clouds that were threatening in the east. Thoughts of Jerry and John Small had faded to their proper place. Mercer felt bad for them, but it was their own stupidity that got them killed. He felt worse for John’s mother, wherever she was. No parent can deal with outliving a child.
Both of Mercer’s parents had been killed in the Belgian Congo during the Katanga uprising. Being an orphan, raised by his paternal grandparents in Vermont, he had never experienced the difficult adolescent phase. Mercer’s desire to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a mining engineer precluded any thoughts of teenage rebellion. He couldn’t imagine what would bring a father and son to physical blows. But something had made them brawl, and the consequences had turned deadly. Like MacLaughlin had said, they had both been drinking.
Just as Mercer turned the key in the door of his house, he cocked his head slightly, as if hearing a voice. In fact, he was hearing John Small again, as if he was standing next to the teenager aboard his father’s boat. Mercer had just offered him a beer and the young man refused with a shake of his head. “No, thanks. I’m captain of the basketball team this year and there’s a good chance I’ll get a scholarship out of it.”
Jesus, John doesn’t drink.
Mercer raced through his house to his office, his fingers touching the piece of kimberlite like a mezuzah. He threw himself into his chair and quickly dialed information. A few moments later he was connected to the sheriff’s office in Homer.
“Dan MacLaughlin speaking.” He sounded better than he had earlier this morning, but exhaustion still dragged at his voice.
“Chief MacLaughlin, this is Philip Mercer. We spoke this morning about Jerry and John Small.”
“Of course, Dr. Mercer.” MacLaughlin sounded shocked by Mercer’s call. “Can I help you?”
“You said that both of them were drunk, right?”
“Preliminary autopsy showed a blood alcohol count of over point two in both of them. They were hammered.”
“Chief, John Small didn’t drink,” Mercer said triumphantly.
MacLaughlin was hoping for a big revelation, so his disappointment sounded especially bitter. “Dr. Mercer, just because he was a minor, don’t mean he didn’t drink. This is Alaska. We do things a little different up here. Hell, I buy my kids beer on the weekends.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. John mentioned his basketball team and not screwing up his chances of a scholarship. We had just found two corpses on a burned-up boat and the kid refused a beer. That sight would have made a ten-year A.A. veteran consider drinking again.”
MacLaughlin was silent for a minute, the static over the line the only indication that he hadn’t hung up. When he spoke, he did so softly, slowly, as the full implications of Mercer’s news sunk in. “My son’s best friend is on that team, and they all pledged not to drink until the season was over. It was a way to keep them focused and fired up. What the hell does this mean?”
“Either John broke his oath or something’s not right and I’m willing to bet it’s linked to the
“No, not yet. But I left a couple of messages. He’ll get back to me by tonight I’m sure. Tomorrow at the latest.”
“Let me ask you, what happened to the hulk of the
MacLaughlin paused before answering. He didn’t like the answer he was about to give. “It was scuttled by the Coast Guard the day after Jerry found it. By law, he had salvage rights to the vessel. Since the owner had died in the fire, there was no one to buy her back. There was nothing worth keeping, so Jerry had the Coasties tow it back out and sink her.” He paused again and then added lamely, “Old boats make great artificial reefs for the fishermen.”
“Did anyone explore inside the ship?” asked Mercer hopefully.
“No, I’m afraid not. She went out the way she was found, flooded to the freeboards.”
“Shit.” Mercer knew he’d just hit a dead end. “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you, Chief.”
“I appreciate the call, Dr. Mercer. And if it’s any consolation, folks die every day in some mighty stupid ways. No sense making more out of this than there is.”
As he hung up the phone, Mercer knew that MacLaughlin wouldn’t leave the case alone, and neither would he.
Up in his bar, the last of the coffee in the pot had burned down to half a cup of tarry residue that could have been used as industrial solvent. Mercer sipped it cautiously while his dinner liquefied in the microwave. Something linked the
Falls Church, Virginia
Mercer’s Jaguar was a dark shadow as it crept along the wide driveway, its throaty V-12 harnessed to a purr, its Pirelli tires hissing against the damp asphalt. A fine mist silvered the night in the twin beams of the car’s headlights. His eyes strained to see the house he knew must be at the end of the lane. No one’s driveway could be this long.
He glanced at the odometer and saw that he’d come nearly a mile since leaving the main road. When he looked up, he finally saw the faint glow of Max Johnston’s home. The car rounded one more sweeping curve, and the house was laid out before him.
It was a massive Tudor with countless gables, oak crossbeams, and steeply pitched roofs that stretched for almost two hundred feet. While the house was enormous, its whimsical style gave it a less imposing feeling. Most of the numerous windows on the first two floors were lit, warming the damp evening with a pale radiance. Mercer counted eight chimneys before pulling his car up to the covered entrance.
A valet met him and swung open the long door of the XJS Jaguar. Mercer noticed several dozen limousines lined up at the side of the house in parade formation. He stepped from the car, allowing the young valet to slide into the leather bucket seat.
From within the home, Mercer heard the solemn vibrato of a cello accompanied by a violin and what sounded like a harpsichord. He could not name the piece, but he appreciated the beauty with which it was being played. Beneath the cuffs of his tuxedo, his beaten TAG Heuer was strapped firmly to his wrist. Nine-thirty. Perfect. The dinner, a boring affair he was sure, was over, and the real reception was just beginning.
He handed his invitation to a somewhat fuddled footman. Mercer was hours late, and the servant regarded him warily, his drooping eyes scanning the card and Mercer with equal suspicion.
“I fell into a bottle of vodka and couldn’t get up,” explained Mercer as he brushed past the doorman.
The entry hall was a story and a half high with wide plank floors and a plaster ceiling. A cherry wood table sat in the center of the foyer, its gleaming top nearly hidden by a beautiful arrangement of cut wildflowers. The room was scented by their subtle perfume. Above the table, a glittering crystal chandelier hung like a fragile stalactite.
In a room to Mercer’s right, servants were preparing the dining table to become a dessert buffet. Tortes, cakes, mousses, and numerous other sticky sweet creations covered the table that could easily seat thirty people. The classical strains of the trio grew louder as Mercer wandered through the dining room. The nine-foot doors at
