Skull Session (41 page)

53

M
O DIALED THE MANHATTAN number, got Grisbach's short, wheezy announcement: "Leave a message."

"Mo Ford," Mo said. It was easy to be terse and concise around Grisbach. "Call me, I need you." He hung up.

When Mo had first begun as an investigator, Gus Grisbach had already been part of the secret lore of New York law enforcement for a decade. His name, how to get access to him, were closely guarded secrets, off the record, handed down from investigator to investigator. As Mo pieced the story together, Gus had been a New York City detective until he'd taken two bullets in his head, then retired on disability allowance. His affection for criminals had never been great, and it hadn't been enhanced by getting injured. After retirement, he'd set himself up to continue law enforcement work. Sort of going freelance.

They'd been able to get the bullets out of his brain, and Gus's ability to think hadn't been impaired. But they'd never managed to rewire him just right. Supposedly he'd once been a charming guy, but the bullets had killed that part of him, whatever part of the brain gave a person social sensitivity, warmth, interest in others, all the checks and balances that kept a person human. Mo had heard the human brain described as having three main layers, added as the organism had evolved—the reptile, the mammal, and the human. The functions of the reptile brain could be summed up as the four Fs:
fight, flight, food,
and
fuck.
The mammal brain added a fifth F:
family,
the ability to bond, to protect and nurture, to engage in complex social interactions. The most recent addition, belonging to
Homo sapiens
alone, did something that didn't begin with an F and so destroyed the neatness of the scheme:
abstract and
associative thinking.
Gus's abstract thinking had survived, but what had died in him, Mo felt, what had taken the bullet, was that fifth F.

After losing parts of his neural equipment, Gus had become bitter, hostile, unstable. He'd have been dangerous to keep on the streets. He had also gotten hugely fat. It was said he never left his apartment now. Mo had never met him in person, but he could picture him, lurking in dim rooms lit only by computer monitors, nursing his insane anger. A spider at the center of his web of myriad computer connections, filaments linking him to information all over the world.

Mo got the call after midnight. Maybe Gus had some image of himself as a sort of Cyber Batman and liked the idea of secret, midnight intrigues against the global criminal conspiracy. Maybe he just didn't know what time of day it was, or didn't care.

"Mo Ford," Gus croaked. He spoke with a deep and wheezy voice, with a little bubble at the back of his throat. "You need my help."

"Gus, thanks for calling. Two things. Status of a couple of companies a Pacific Development Corporation and a Star Technologies. Both with connections to Asia. I need to know if they're legit, if they're doing all right, if there's any scuttlebutt in the markets about them—if they're in trouble, if they're trying something aggressive, anything fishy about them, whatever. I'm looking for reasons somebody would need money. Head honcho is a Royce Hoffmann, New York and Amsterdam addresses."

Mo could hear the clatter of a computer keyboard, Gus taking notes.

"What else?" Gus asked.

"The whereabouts of this Royce Hoffmann. Supposedly was leaving the country from New York on or around December fifth. I'd like to know where he is, what his travel plans are. Where he has been during the last year. Could use commercial flights, but might go by corporate or private planes—the best way might be to check when his passport has been in or out."

"Tell me what you want, skip the advice."

"Sorry. If you can put together a profile on his lifestyle—where he stays when he travels, how much he spends, that'd be great. He's supposed to be rich as shit. I'd like to know for sure. Especially if there've been any changes in his spending habits in the last year or so."

"What else?"

"Look into this guy Gus Grisbach for me. Supposed to be a computer wizard somewhere in Manhattan. Completely crazy, but a legend in his own time. Let me know how he's doing, how's his health. That kind of thing."

"Fuck you, Ford," Grisbach said.

The line went dead. Gus didn't ask when Mo needed the info. If you'd resorted to calling Gus, ASAP was a given.

54

I
T'S BEGINNING TO come together," Mo said. "We're no longer chasing wild geese. The ends are starting to tie up, the lines converge. You are going to love this." His last comment seemed directed to Lia.

They were in the smoking room, Paul and Lia sitting in the big wingback chairs, Mo pacing back and forth. He had that light about him, Paul decided, the same as Lia's when she got excited about something. The hunter on the trail. Lia watched him, captivated by his intensity. From the basement they could hear muffled hammering as Becker's crew dismantled the old furnaces. Through the smoking-room window, Paul could see Becker's van and a huge pickup truck in the driveway.

"I've made a lot of progress since we last talked. Friday, I went down to the Lewisboro town offices, then the courthouse in White Plains. Did some research into this property. Turns out your aunt isn't the owner of Highwood, Paul."

"What!"

"That's right. Your cousin is. Transmitted to Royce Hoffmann earlier this year from the Hoffmann Trust, which got it from Erik Hoffmann II at his death in 1985, subject to provisions of divorce proceedings,
Hoffmann
v.
Hoffmann,
1952."

"So how does Vivien live here?" Lia asked. "Under what auspices?"

"Your aunt lives here as the result of a property division resulting from the divorce settlement. She apparently got a chunk of money and generous alimony. But the property ownership stayed with Hoffmann. Vivien got what they call a life estate—the right to live here for the rest of her life. It must have been a hell of a divorce, every inch of ground fought over, because her life estate was restricted by certain provisos."

Lia turned to Paul. "He's really enjoying this, isn't he? Keep us in suspense, feed us tidbits one by one." She grinned at Mo. "That's my cue to ask what kind of provisos, right?"

"Yep." Mo returned her smile. "And the answer is, continuous occupancy. Hoffmann was a canny old buzzard. If Vivien should retain the right to continue to live at Highwood because of a 'deep emotional attachment' to the premises, as she claimed in her settlement arguments, then she'd have to continue to demonstrate that attachment. Vacations, normal short-term absences would be fine, but if she leaves here and establishes a primary residence elsewhere for a period of six months, she loses her right to live here."

Mo waited, letting the ramifications of that settle in.

"And of course if the place is really beat to shit, she can't live here," Paul said. "And if she doesn't live here for that time, she loses it. Presumably the property would go to Royce."

"Beautiful," Lia said. "Royce wanting the place for himself would explain two things we've wondered about. One, why such extreme damage? Answer: because he'd need to guarantee that it would be uninhabitable for a long enough time to trigger the continuous occupancy clause. Two, why not just burn the place down? Answer: because ifRoyce is doing this to get his hands on the money value of the place, he doesn't want to destroy the house. It's got to be worth a couple of million—intact. Also why Royce would try so hard to bribe Paul away from the job. But he wasn't counting on a family member, somebody who'd stick by his commitments, contracting to do the work."

"Which Vivien may have anticipated," Mo said. "Possibly the reason she initiated the contact with Paul in the first place. This whole thing could be part of an old, old chess match between mother and son."

Paul thought about it. "Royce mentioned to me that he often wheels and deals well beyond his own liquidity. Maybe he's pressed for cash now—he'd like to sell this property, but he can't do it with Vivien's life estate in place. And I'll bet there's a clause specifying that nobody can borrow against its equity value as long as Vivien is in possession."

Mo nodded, impressed. "Correct. Because default on a loan against the property would endanger a prior contract—Vivien's life estate—neither Royce nor his father were allowed to borrow against it while she was in residence. Well, you both get an A in deduction—I came to the same conclusions."

"Thanks, teacher." Lia reached out a foot to kick him softly in the calf, smiling. Mo obviously savored the gesture.

"But what was the Hoffmann Trust?" Paul asked. "If ownership was going to come just to Royce anyway, why did Hoffmann Senior bother with the intermediary entity—the trust?"

Mo shrugged. "Keeps it out of Royce's hands until he's of a certain age? Tax dodge? If you really think it matters, I can look into it." He took another turn on the rug and stopped, facing them. "But I've got another juicy one for you. I've been saving the best for last."

Lia shot a glance at Paul. "Let's not encourage him," she said.

"Paul, I took your question seriously—the question
oihow.
Frankly, it's been bugging me too. So I went to see Bazal at a martial-arts demonstration. He's into some exotic Eastern fighting techniques, and he's good, Paul. He's one of these guys who breaks boards with their bare hands. Probably there's nothing here he couldn't have done. Suppose he works for his millionaire friend Royce in his off hours."

"I propose a toast," Lia said. "Mo, you're a genius. You're a great detective and you're a great storyteller. You oughta be on Broadway." She raised her coffee cup in salute.

Mo turned his head away, Paul noticed, to hide his pleasure.
He's
doing this for Lia,
he realized.
This is the cop equivalent of bringing her a
bouquet.

Lia and Mo chattered on excitedly, but Paul tuned them out, his thoughts spiraling in on what he'd learned. Rizal was into Eastern martial arts. Was there more to it than Mo knew—maybe a tie to the KKK, the Katipunan, after all? But why wreck Highwood?
That boy was
positively steeped in every sort of nonsense from his ancestral
islands
—
secret
societies, native superstitions, the injured self-righteousness of the victims of
colonialism,
Vivien had said. Maybe it wasn't all nonsense. Maybe it wasn't as simple as vandalism for hire.

And Vivien: When had she gone to California? And how did her impending return tie in with the continuous occupancy clause? It had to be nearly six months ago that she'd left Highwood—if she wanted to keep the place, she had to be getting nervous by now. Which upped the pressure on Paul to get the repairs done. Would she pay him the rest of his fee if he fell behind schedule and cost her the lodge? Fat fucking chance.

And the Hoffmann Trust. When Hoffmann died, Royce would have been thirty-five—why not just leave it to Royce? Why create the trust, which was the owner of record for nine years after Hoffmann's death? Was the Hoffmann Trust Royce alone, or Royce and someone else? And what had caused the trust to revert entirely to Royce?

Patterns: Mo had found a pretty neat case against Royce. Paul realized he'd felt a pattern emerging too, even before Mo came, pieces of the puzzle shifting, aligning. It confirmed what he'd been suspecting for several days: that his own ability to track patterns had been changing since he quit haloperidol. There was new clarity, an ability to assimilate details and connect the dots. Yes, the parts had begun to fit. Paul could almost
see
it,
feel
it. The only problem was, it didn't look anything like the pattern Mo had assembled. Or maybe Mo's was part of it—part of a bigger picture, bigger and stranger.

It was something like the discovery of the planet Pluto, Paul thought. Long before the planet was seen through telescopes, scientists were puzzling over disturbances in the orbits of Uranus and Neptune.
Something
was out there, an invisible force in the scheme of the solar system. Once astronomers had calculated the quirks in the other planets' orbits, they knew where to look, and sure enough, there was the dark ninth planet.

That's how this situation felt. A hidden presence. Something they could
sense,
could
feel,
but couldn't see. Not just yet, anyway.

55

M
ONDAY AFTERNOON MO CONTINUED down hlS checklist, feeling energized after his meeting with Paul and Lia. It was only three o'clock, and a worn-out-looking janitor was polishing the hall floors with a machine that stank up the air with cleaning solvent fumes, like a goddamned bus station. You had to wonder why they couldn't wait until after hours. He got up and shut the door to cut the noise.

Feeling a familiar trepidation, he dialed the Masons' number. As usual, the phone rang four times and was answered by the machine:

"You have reached the Mason residence. I'm sorry, but . . ."

"This is Morgan Ford, calling again from—" Mo began. He was cut off when the machine squealed suddenly and clicked off.

"Hello, Mr. Ford."

"Mrs. Mason, thank you for answering. I'm sorry to be calling again, but—"

"Yes, I'm sorry you're calling again too." Her voice was flat, empty of emotion.

"Listen, Mrs. Mason. You know why I'm calling. I need your help. I need Heather's help."

"Yes, I know exactly why you're calling. And no, we can't help you, Mr. Ford." Her voice was absolutely toneless. It was hard to imagine such a voice coming from the deep-eyed, sincere woman he'd met. "But—"

"You can go to
helll"
she cried suddenly. "You can go to
hell
and leave us alone!" In the background, Mo heard a man's solicitous, cautioning voice:
"Honey
. . ." "You can stop calling us now. Because you'll never talk to Heather. Because my daughter is
dead,
Mr. Ford. Is that good enough? Are you satisfied?" She was suddenly crying, keening.

"What happened, Mrs. Mason?"

"My daughter committed suicide. My only child left, my beautiful daughter cut open her wrists and let her life run out of her and down the tub drain like water, like
sewage.
Oh,
God!
Leave us alone!"

Mo sat down, almost missing the edge of his chair.

"Mr. Ford?" The husband's voice, a man struggling to maintain any control at all. "My wife can't talk to you now. I can't. We've . . . it's all we can. . . . Don't call us again. Please."

Mo listened to the dial tone for a full minute, Then he fumbled the receiver back onto its cradle.
Five things worse than dying.

It took him a few minutes before he'd recovered enough to ask around about Heather Mason's death. One of the risks of being out of the office so much, dodging your colleagues: You got left out of the loop.

He got the details from Joe Matarini, who'd gotten the case. Matarini was smart, an experienced investigator. Suicide, nothing but. Heather's shrink, Dr. Kurtz, had sorrowfully agreed it was entirely in line with her mental state. Mrs. Mason had found her on Sunday afternoon in the bathtub naked, her inner thighs and wrists slashed. A single-edged razor blade was still in her hand, and the M.E.'s report stated that it was compatible with the many cuts drawn deftly along the length of her arteries. She hadn't left a note other than the sheaf of lined paper, torn from spiral notebooks, covered with meaningless lines of waves and loops, which sat on the edge of the tub. Her story. With the title that explained everything.

Mo thought:
This job is the pits. The absolute pits.
Numb, he got his mail and headed back to his private utility closet.

Where, looking through the assorted letters and junk mail, he got another shock. With a Jewish mother, Jewish aunts and uncles, he hadn't been brought up with a lot of faith in the idea of resurrection. Even if their household had embraced his father's lapsed Catholicism, Mo's own philosophical inclinations were that when you died you were dead, gone, gone, gone and probably glad of it. But in his hand was a feminine, lavender-tinted envelope addressed to him in ballpoint pen.

From Heather Mason.

Inside was a ragged-edged page from Heather's spiral notebook. Checking quickly, he found that the envelope was postmarked Saturday, the day before she died. He'd have to give a copy to Matarini, part of the file on Heather, the story of her ending that would get closed and submerged in a sea of other wretched paperwork in an obscure cubbyhole somewhere, the exhaustively chronicled history of misery in Westchester County, and everywhere.

/
wasn't kidding,
she'd written.
Do you believe me now?