John Hart - The King Of Lies

“Alex?” I asked, but he ignored me, and I felt his door slam shut. The car rocked, as if agitated; so I got in, and took my question with me.

“It’s not her real name,” Hank told me five seconds later. “That’s why I couldn’t find a record of her at the hospital in Charlotte. Jean was in the system, plain as day, but no Alex Shiften. To me, that stank of something, but I couldn’t tell what. Not until I went back with that picture you gave me.”

“So you got the picture?” I asked numbly, dealing with the little detail because I could not focus on the great big one that sat like an elephant on my lap.

“Early,” Hank responded. “A little after five, and then I drove back to Charlotte in time for the shift change at the hospital. I flashed the photo, asked my questions, and eventually found the right guy, an orderly with a deep appreciation for Benjamin Franklin.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He knew Alex all right, but not by that name. According to him, her name is Virginia Temple. She’d been at Charter Hills for three months before Jean showed up. Apparently, they hit it off pretty quick. For a couple months there, your sister spoke to no one but her.”

“Virginia,” I repeated. The name felt made up. Alex Shiften was too hard to be a Virginia, too sharp, like calling a razor blade a butter knife.

“It gets worse,” Hank said. “She transferred in from Dorothea Dix.”

“The hospital in Raleigh?”

“The state hospital in Raleigh. The place where they keep the criminally insane.”

“Not everybody there is a criminal,” I said. “Just some.”

“That’s right. Just some. But some of those eventually get out, and usually they’re transferred to a place like Charter Hills. A stepping-stone to normal living, like a halfway house.”

“And you think that may be the case with Alex?”

Hank shrugged.

“Well shit,” I said.

“Exactly,” Hank replied, and started the car. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

He dropped the transmission into drive.

“I’m not supposed to leave the county,” I said. “It’s part of the standard bail arrangement.”

He put the car back into park and turned to face me. “Your call, Work. I can drive you home if you want and check it out myself. No sweat at all.”

I didn’t want the judge to regret her kindness, but this was too important to play by the rules; and rules, I had recently decided, weren’t necessarily good. I’d played my whole life by the book, and that life wasn’t looking very pretty right now. “Screw it. Let’s go.”

“That’s my boy.”

“But we have to make a couple stops on the way out of town.”

“It’s your life,” Hank said, accelerating away from the curb. “I’m just driving.”

It was a short drive to Clarence Hambly’s office. Like most lawyers in town, he worked close to the courthouse. Hank pulled into his parking lot, a crowded space, its brick accents designed to make the cracked concrete look less austere. The building itself was over two hundred years old, a four-over-four antebellum structure with a large addition in back, hidden from the street.

“So, what are we doing?” Hank asked.

“I have to ask some questions. It won’t take long.”

The lobby was crowded with criminal defendants whom Hambly would shuck off on some junior associate for a buck twenty-five an hour or a flat fee, based on the charge and the likelihood of their taking a plea. He had a rear entrance and private stairwell for his more august clients. They’d go straight up, to the personal assistant who guarded his office. I knew that I’d never get past her unannounced, so I didn’t even bother. Instead, I cut through the crowd in the main lobby and put my hands on the gleaming cherry-wood counter. One of Hambly’s assistants, an older woman, asked if she could be of some assistance, then stepped back once she looked up and recognized me.

“I’d like to see Clarence,” I said.

“That’s not possible,” she replied.

“I’d like to see him now. And I’m very willing to raise my voice. So please just let him know that I am here.”

She looked me up and down, thinking about it. I knew for a fact that she’d handled hundreds of frustrated, angry clients, so she had to size me up. After a few seconds, she picked up the phone and told Hambly’s assistant that I was there to see him. It took a good minute.

“You can go up,” she said.

Hambly met me at his office door and stepped aside to let me in. The office was long and elegant, with views of the courthouse on the other side of Main Street. He did not ask me to sit, just studied me from above his paisley bow tie.

“Most people make an appointment,” he said.

“This won’t take long,” I replied, closing the door. I took a step closer to him and planted my feet widely. “I want to know how a copy of my father’s will came to be in my house.”

“I didn’t realize that one had.”

“Who had a copy?”

“This conversation is highly inappropriate,” Hambly said.

“It’s a simple question.”

“Very well. I gave two originals to your father and kept one here. If he made copies, that was his own business. I have no idea how one ended up in your house.”

“You’ve seen the one that the police have in their custody?”

“I have, but I cannot say for certain that it is the one found in your house. They asked me to identify it and I did.”

I pushed. “Yet, it is an accurate copy. You verified that for them.”

“Yes,” he conceded.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Ezra was going to cut me out of his will?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Mills,” I said.

Hambly smiled tightly, a gleam in his eyes. “If Mills told you that, she did so for her own reasons. Yes, your father contemplated some minor changes, but he never intended to remove you as a beneficiary. He was quite firm on that. I suspect that Mills was trying to trick you into some indiscretion.”

“What changes?”

“Nothing significant and nothing that was ever put into place. Ergo, nothing that concerns you as the beneficiary of his estate.”

“Is your copy of the original accounted for?” I asked.

“Filed with the probate court. I’m certain that they would show it to you, if you asked.”

“Yet you made copies.”

“Of course, I made copies. This is a law office. I represent the estate.”

“Who else did you give copies to? Mills? Douglas? Who else?”

“Don’t raise your voice to me, young man. I won’t tolerate it.”

“Try this on then, Clarence. If I am convicted of Ezra’s murder, can I inherit under the laws of North Carolina?”

“You know that the state will not allow a killer to profit from his crime in that way.”

“Then who retains control of Ezra’s assets?”

“What are you implying?” Hambly demanded.

“Who?”

“All of your father’s assets pass to the foundation.”

“And who controls that foundation?”

“I do not appreciate your insinuation.”

“You would have control of the entire forty million dollars. Isn’t that correct?”

Hambly stared at me, his face tight with barely contained fury. “I find you and your petty machinations insufferable, Work. Get out of my office.”

“You were in my house. For the first time ever since I bought it, you were in my house. Why?”

“I was there because Barbara invited me to be there. And because it was the respectful thing to do. I should not have to explain that to you. Now, get out,” he said, and took me by the arm. Outside of his office, before the pretty young assistant who had come suddenly to her feet, I jerked my arm free.