J. Black - The Survivors Club

Tess dropped back to avoid the chalky dust funneling up from Cheryl’s vehicle—so dry out here. The road was a washboard. They went several miles. They rounded a curve and Tess spotted a house a couple of miles ahead, looking down at them from a high promontory. Shaded by giant eucalyptus trees and Aleppo pines, the walls in the afternoon sunlight were dull red brown.

Zinderneuf.

Up the hill and into a clearing for parking.

There were two cars in the lot. One was a silver Toyota 4Runner with a rack for bicycles on the back. The other still had the temporary sticker in the window. The car was a dark blue luxury sports sedan Tess didn’t recognize—but she knew it was expensive. It was also unusual—sleek and dangerous-looking. She leaned down to read the make and model just behind the front wheel: Fisker Karma. Both cars were parked outside, but there was a four-door garage, painted to match the house, at the edge of the lot. Tess wondered how practical a low-slung car like that was, given the flash floods that inundated Tucson in the summer. There were a few low spots in the dirt road up here.

“This guy really is rich,” Cheryl said.

“No kidding.”

The Moorish building could have been in Tangiers. Royal palms clustered around the entrance. A tall wall surrounded a courtyard. In the wall was a gate inset with a mosaic of peacocks. The house was two stories high and sprawled along the hilltop. Beyond, Tess saw a rectangular swimming pool that must have gone in in the forties, and a smaller, similar house on the other side.

“That must be their Mini-Me,” Tess deadpanned. With Danny out of commission, she felt it incumbent upon herself to be the wisecracker.

Cheryl pressed the doorbell. They waited. She pressed it again. “He said he would be here.”

Tess glanced back at the parking lot. She assumed the Fisker Karma belonged to Michael. It looked like something he would drive.

Then the door opened. Michael DeKoven greeted them. He was wearing a bathrobe. He said, “Don’t tell me. You’re here to sell me a magazine subscription.”

The inside of the house didn’t look as nice as it had in the Tucson Lifestyle spread. There seemed to be furniture missing, and some of the beautiful things Tess had noticed—like a Tiffany lamp—were gone.

DeKoven excused himself to change. Tess realized that this was the second time she’d met him when he was half-dressed.

He returned, wearing a Ski Aspen T-shirt, madras shorts, and boat shoes, sans socks. Tess had seen his well-developed cyclist’s calves before.

He caught her looking and smiled. “Real men shave their legs.” Then he said to Tess, “You get around, don’t you?”

Cheryl said, “How about the kitchen table? We might as well sit down.”

He led the way to a kitchen that had been remodeled to accommodate industrial-size appliances. They sat around the table. Tess farthest away, hoping to fade into the woodwork and let this be between the two of them. She would watch him for truthfulness, or any tells that might show he was lying.

Cheryl set down the minirecorder and made her introduction—the date, time, who she was interviewing, who was a witness, the case number, and the name of the victim. She started with asking him simple questions—his occupation, who was in his immediate family. Then she asked DeKoven if he knew George Hanley.

“I met him once or twice. He’s a friend of my sister’s.”

“Did you ever work with him professionally?”

“I thought this was about Barkman. You mentioned him on the phone.”

“We’ll get to that, but would you please answer the question?”

“I’ll tell you what I told Ms., uh…” He looked at Tess, as if he had forgotten her name. “My sister suggested I take Mr. Hanley on as a client. The old guy came in, we talked, and he left. I never saw him again.”

Cheryl asked if he knew Steve Barkman.

DeKoven folded his arms and pressed his index finger to his lips. “Mr. Barkman’s mother is a sitting judge in Pima County. I might have met him once or twice—maybe at the symphony. No—a fundraiser. His mother…introduced us.” He looked from one to the other, all innocence. “What does this all have to do with me? You weren’t clear on the phone.”

“What would you think if I told you that Steve Barkman was investigating you? Would that surprise you?”

He stared at her. Then he frowned—all innocence. “Investigating me?”

“He seemed to center around April tenth. Were you in town on April tenth?”

He looked bemused. “I’m sure I was.”

“You’re sure.”

He crossed his leg to the other side and rested his hand on his chin. “What are you saying here? Should I have a lawyer present?”

“These are just questions,” Cheryl said. “If you like, we could have a more official interview downtown.”

He absorbed this, then smiled— no harm, no foul . “No, that’s okay. I have nothing to hide. April tenth…I worked all day at DeKoven Financial—I’m pretty sure of the date because I had a big account that I had to ride herd on—deadlines are a bitch—and after that I came home for dinner here at the ranch. Ask my wife, she’ll tell you.”

“We’ll do that.”

“Have at it.”

He was sure of himself on this point. Maybe it was because his wife would lie for him, or maybe because he was telling the truth. Any way you looked at it, Tess was pretty sure Michael’s wife wouldn’t say anything.

Cheryl said, “Is your wife here?”

“No, she’s out with friends at the moment.” He held Cheryl’s gaze.

Tess couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. There was a hint of a dare in his eyes, which went well with the self-satisfied smirk.

She had to remind herself that just because she didn’t like him, just because he made something recoil inside her, didn’t mean he was anything more than a sociopathic financial advisor.

Cheryl said, “What about March twenty-eighth? Were you here in town?”

“I’d have to look. I’ve gone to Phoenix twice in the last month.”

“Could you do that?”

He pulled out his phone and looked at dates. Held it up for her to see. There was nothing marked for those dates, which didn’t necessarily prove anything. But it didn’t disprove anything either.

“You weren’t in Houston?”

“Houston? Why would I go to Houston?”

Cheryl moved on. “Do you know a man named Alec Sheppard?”

He looked mystified. “Who?”

“Alec Sheppard. He lives in Houston.”

DeKoven shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

“Don’t be sorry, I’m just asking you about him.” She smiled.

He smiled back.

Cheryl Tedesco said, “Alec Sheppard has indicated that he knows you. He claims you were in Houston at the SkyView Center.”

Tess and Cheryl both knew that there was no record of Michael DeKoven going to Houston. No flight information, no hotel information. Tess knew that Cheryl had been scrupulous in her search. But that didn’t mean he didn’t go.

“Mr. Sheppard says he recognized you,” Cheryl lied.

All’s fair in love and war.

“Then this Mr. Sheppard is either a liar, or needs to get new glasses, or there’s something screwy up here.” He wound his finger around his ear. “You might want to do more research—especially on this guy. Because I don’t know him from Adam.”

“He claims you made a gesture.”

“What kind of gesture?”

“That’s what I’d like to hear from you.”

He stared at Cheryl. His eyes were dark glass. You could not see into them. There seemed to be nothing there. Not anger, not worry—nothing. “I haven’t been to Houston in years.”

He sounded solid. Just the right amount of outrage—not over-the-top. Other than the strange feeling that he was above it all, and better than them, he gave them nothing.