Michael Nava - The Little Death

“But you had the evidence. Why not use it against him?”

He regarded me coolly as if deciding that I was not as bright as he’d been led to believe. “I did use it, Mr. Rios.” “Not to go to the police.”

“No,” he said, laying a fingertip against the windowsill. “My investigators obtained the evidence as,” he smiled at me, conspiratorially, “expeditiously as possible. Their methods were not the police’s methods and, consequently, my lawyers informed me that Robert would’ve been able to suppress enough of the evidence to weaken the case against him, perhaps fatally.”

“Nonetheless,” I insisted, “it was worth a try.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, impatiently. “There were higher stakes to play.”

“Something greater than justice for the dead?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “I was told you had a lawyer’s way with words,” he said, not admiringly.

“You were talking about higher stakes.”

“Yes, there was the money to think about, Christina’s estate, one-half of my grandfather’s fortune. It had fallen into Robert’s hands. Robert was many things, most of them contemptible, but he was good with money. I had to think ahead about what would’ve happened to that money had Robert been removed from the picture.”

“It would’ve gone to its rightful heirs.”

“Who at that time,” Smith said, “were my lunatic nephew, Nicholas, and his ten-year-old son, Hugh.”

“Why couldn’t you have had yourself appointed their guardian?”

“Because there was someone with a much stronger claim to that office.”

“Who?”

Smith snorted. “Your client, Mr. Rios. Katherine Paris.”

I said, “Ah.”

“Katherine Paris,” he said with recollected scorn, “a writer.” It was the ultimate epithet. “She didn’t know the first thing about money.”

“Whereas the judge knew all about money.”

“And, more importantly, I had a lever with which to control him.”

“So you took the evidence that linked him to the murders and used it to blackmail him.”

Smith looked out the window. A few late roses clung tenaciously to life. Perhaps they were the ones that had been named in his honor. “Yes,” he said, defiantly. “Yes.”

“And what did you get in return for not exposing him?”

“An agreement.” He began to walk across the room. I walked with him. “At Robert’s death, his entire estate was to revert to the Linden Trust, of which I am chairman. In the meantime, his affairs were controlled by my lawyers. He couldn’t invest or spend a cent without my approval.”

“And if he had?”

“My lawyers would’ve seen to it that criminal proceedings were initiated against him the second he deviated from our agreement.”

“Other than your lawyers, who knew about the agreement?”

“His lawyers, of course.”

Grayson, Graves and Miller — Aaron’s firm. In the remote reaches of my mind something fell into place but was still too distant for me to articulate.

“So you see, the blackmail — your word, not mine — was a necessary evil.”

“That seems to be your forte.”

“That was cheap, Mr. Rios,” he said, stopping in front of a painting that depicted the original law school.

“A moment ago you indicated that I was right about the murders of Christina and Jeremy Paris but not about Hugh’s. What did you mean?”

The color, what there was of it, seeped from his face. “Robert Paris didn’t have Hugh murdered,” he said.

“You mean Peter Barron acted on his own?”

“No.”

I was about to speak when, staring at his gaunt ancient face, the bones so prominent that I could have been addressing a skull, I realized that I was staring at Hugh’s murderer.

“You,” I said. “Robert Paris was your creature. He couldn’t have employed an assassin with you controlling his money, unless you agreed to it.”

Smith looked away.

“And of course you agreed to it. You had as much or more to lose as Robert Paris had his earlier murders been exposed. You knew that Paris killed his wife and son and you knew that Hugh was the rightful heir to the judge’s share of the Linden fortune. For twenty years you helped cover up those murders and defraud Hugh of his inheritance.” I advanced toward Smith, who moved a step back. “But Hugh thought you would help him and he came to you. You leased him the house so you could keep an eye on him. He trusted you. You betrayed him.”

The two guards had come up behind Smith, their hands on their guns. I stopped. Smith glanced over his shoulder and ordered them to retreat. They stepped back.

“Hugh hated his grandfather almost to the point of psychosis,” Smith said, “and he knew that I was no friend of Robert’s.” He smiled, bitterly. “You see, Mr. Rios, I made a pact with the devil, but I could never bring myself to enjoy his company.”

“That makes no difference.”

“Perhaps not. Still, I encouraged Hugh’s hatred of his grandfather — partly, I suppose, to deflect any suspicion from myself but also because Hugh gave vent to the hatred I felt for Robert Paris, my sister’s murderer, my nephew’s murderer.”

“But you danced to his tune.”

“Yes, I see that clearly now, but at the time, I was blind. One’s own motives are always lost in mists of rationalizations. Hugh found out about the murders and expected my help in exposing his grandfather. If I refused to help him he would become suspicious of me, perhaps even guess my complicity. But I could hardly agree to help him expose Robert without also exposing myself.”

“Did you tell him about your part in the cover-up?”

“Yes.” Smith said.

“And he went berserk.”

“Yes.”

“Threatened to expose you as well.”

“Yes.”

“So you had him killed.”

“Yes.”

Smith brought his hand to his throat, as if protecting it. Suddenly, I saw the scene that had occurred between Smith and

Hugh when Smith revealed his part in the cover-up. Hugh must have responded like a madman, physically attacking his great- uncle. In a way, that might have made it easier for Smith to give the order to have Hugh killed; to regard Hugh as a madman on the verge of bringing the entire family to ruin and obloquy. Smith believed he served a legitimate purpose in having Hugh murdered, but in fact he was merely acting as Robert Paris’s agent.

Smith and I had squared off, facing each other tensely across a few feet of shadowy space.

“That’s not the end of the story,” I said. “You had Hugh killed by Peter Barron. But where is Peter Barron?”

“Dead,” the old man muttered.

“His life for Hugh’s?”

“Is that so rough a measure of justice?”

“Yes, from my perspective, especially when you weigh Aaron Gold’s death in the balance.’’

Smith shook his head. “That was unintentional. Mr. Gold worked for the firm that handled Robert’s personal accounts. Shortly after Hugh’s death, the partner who worked closest with Robert discovered certain documents missing that showed the extent to which I controlled all of Robert’s transactions. There were also some personal papers missing, among them, Hugh’s letters to Robert. The partner conducted a quiet investigation. The documents were found at Mr. Gold’s home and the letters, as you know, at your apartment.”

“Aaron had discovered that Paris wasn’t in control of his affairs but that you were,” I said, “and he reasoned that you, not Paris, were behind Hugh’s death.”

“Something like that,” Smith said. “No one ever had an opportunity to talk to Mr. Gold.”

“You saw to that,” I said.

“No,” Smith repeated wearily. “That was Peter Barron acting on his own. He told me he’d gone to talk to Mr. Gold, that there was a struggle and the gun went off.”