Jan Burke - Nine

“Well, she did. And that just shows that my grandmother was one fucking smart old lady, because my dad is a turd.”

Mr. Blaine pursed his lips. He recalled the outrageous behavior Frederick Whitfield III had exhibited when he learned that his mother had not left him a penny, the things he had said to Mr. Blaine, the attempts he had made to overset the will Mr. Blaine had drawn up in favor of old lady Whitfield’s grandson. “I agree,” he said at last.

Mr. Blaine thought Frederick had seemed a little nervous, but at that, his client smiled charmingly.

“Great-because, like, I’ve been thinking-I could get killed.”

“What?”

“I mean,” he said quickly, “in a car accident, or like, on an African safari, or something-you never know, right? And I don’t want my dad to get my grandmother’s money after you and Grandmother worked so hard to keep it from him. So I’m making a will. But I’ve got to get this done today. Right now.”

“Why?”

“Dude! I just told you!”

“No, I mean, why today?”

There was the slightest hesitation before he said, “Because I’m going to travel to the South Pacific and go sailing with someone, and we leave this afternoon.”

Mr. Blaine thought this was not the whole truth, or perhaps even part of it. But he knew Frederick Whitfield IV well enough to realize that his best course of action at this point was to call in his secretary-who was also his second wife-to hear Mr. Whitfield dictate his will.

When she arrived, Mr. Blaine said, “Now, Mr. Whitfield, let’s carefully consider how you want to leave your estate.”

“Fuck all of that,” he said. “I’m leaving it all to my boyakina.”

“Your what?”

“Boyakina. You’re too old to understand that, my man, so don’t even bother. But I’ve thought about this-a whole lot. Like, all the way down here from Malibu. Everett and my other friends, they’re already so fucking rich, they wouldn’t even notice the difference, right?”

Mr. Blaine had once met Mr. Corey and thought him a bigger-to use his client’s expression-turd even than Frederick Whitfield III. He therefore didn’t bother to remark that only an institutionalized catatonic wouldn’t notice being made richer by the size of Mr. Whitfield’s fortune.

His secretary cleared her throat and said, “Pardon me, Mr. Whitfield, could you spell the name boyakina for me?”

Frederick grinned. He spelled it, then said, “But that’s not her name. Her name is Vanessa. Vanessa Przbyslaw. P-r-z-b-y-s-l-a-w.” He gave them the address he had noted when he left for the airport that morning. “I don’t have the zip code, but here’s her phone number.”

“And is she some relation of yours?” Blaine asked.

“No-man, don’t you get it?”

“I understand that you don’t want your parents-”

“Or any of the others. Grandmother would have loved Vanessa.”

Mr. Whitfield seemed to believe this quite strongly. Although Mr. Blaine doubted much of what Mr. Whitfield said to him on any given occasion, he began to believe that his regard for Ms. Przbyslaw was genuine. Mr. Blaine glanced at his wife, who nodded encouragement.

And so they made out the will, which was simple enough. Mr. Whitfield wrote a personal note to include with it.

“When you return from the South Pacific,” Mr. Blaine said, once the document was signed and witnessed, “please come to see me again. Although I’m pleased you have a will, I don’t think such an important matter should be handled in quite this way, sir.”

“Will my parents be able to fight this one?”

Blaine stood a little straighter. “Not successfully.”

“That’s why I came here. Look, I gotta get out of here, but thanks. Just mail my copies to me, okay? I don’t want to lose them on the boat. And if everything works out okay, maybe I’ll come back and you can bore the shit out of me with all your lawyer talk. But if I don’t, you be good to Vanessa and look out for her, because her old man is a turd, too.”

When he left, Mr. Blaine put the will in his safe. He heard the click of the lock on his office door and turned to see his wife smiling at him.

“When he came in, I canceled your other appointments for this afternoon. Come here, my boyakina.”

Sheriff’s Department Headquarters

Monterey Park, California

Wednesday, May 21, 3:06 P.M.

The sensation that he was being watched had stayed with Kit. Again and again, he checked his rearview mirror on the drive to the press conference but never saw any car that stayed behind him for long. He pulled over once and looked up into the sky, to see if a plane or helicopter had been following him from above. Twice, he suddenly took an exit from the freeway without signaling and watched for another car to do the same. Despite all this maneuvering, he still managed to reach the sheriff’s department parking lot in time to find a space close to the front door, although not as near as some television trucks and vans. By then, he was convinced that his fear of pursuit was unfounded.

He felt embarrassed and wondered what Meghan would say if she knew how unstable he really was.

He came to a security checkpoint as he entered the building. A rectangular shoulder bag-Moriarty had assured him it was similar to ones used by some reporters-had an extra lining in it, which would show a wallet and perhaps a few other small objects when X-rayed, but not the envelope they were in. The digital camera, pens, notebook, keys, and other items would not be questioned.

He had wanted to use his own name, afraid he would be taken into custody trying to present a phony driver’s license to a sheriff’s deputy. But Moriarty had been adamant that he use a fake ID. He had to admit that he would not have been able to tell the difference between his own license and the one for “Ed Thomas,” whom he was pretending to be. Next he worried that the press credentials Moriarty had created for him might be rejected. He did, however, own a percentage of the small paper he supposedly represented. He knew the publisher would back him up, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

To his relief, both the license and the credentials were accepted without more than a glance. He decided the sheer number of people who needed to be admitted was of help. The story was being covered nationally now-and to some extent, internationally as well-and reporters from newspapers, magazines, radio, television, and Internet news services were on hand. All the same, he flipped the laminated press pass around. He’d just as soon not have too many people remember his presence here.

Once in, he became calm. He had so often been the new kid at school, he had developed skills that helped him in new and possibly hostile environments. There was something about this throng of reporters that reminded him of the school yard, and his old ability to keep bullies at a distance seemed to work here as well as it had there, perhaps even better than when he was younger.

The room was crowded and excessively hot, no doubt because of the television camera lights. He pulled out his reporter’s notebook and flipped through it. There were notes here, about Alex Brandon. For two days now, Moriarty had tried to learn all he could about the man. Moriarty had resources within the LASD. A former Green Beret, Moriarty never ceased to amaze Kit with his ability to find someone who would give him information.

So Kit now knew about Brandon’s father’s suicide, the breakup of his marriage, and most of his career. He had been sorry to read that Brandon’s old partner, whom Kit remembered vividly, had died about a year ago. Kit learned that in the time since he had first met him, Brandon had taken up rock climbing. Brandon lived alone, but at the moment, his uncle was staying with him. For the first time in any report Kit had received from him, Moriarty had added a personal note. “Thanks for this assignment-it has helped me discover what became of an old friend. Before he left the army, Brandon’s uncle, John O’Brien, made my life miserable when I was training for Special Forces. I won’t contact O’Brien until this is all over, but I can tell you that if Brandon is anything like his uncle, you can trust him completely.”