Authors: Bryan Devore
“Do you think he died from hitting a tree? Do you think it was an accident?” he said, impatient to get to the real question he had been wanting to ask.
“Injustices don’t come out of accidents. Bad luck does, of course, but true injustice has both a victim and a perpetrator. For my wife, it was a drunk driver. For the photographer, it was a bear. And for your friend, I’m not sure what it was, but I don’t think it was a tree.”
“Did you perform an autopsy?”
Dr. Speer frowned. “It wasn’t required. Besides my unfounded gut impression, there was nothing to lead the authorities to perform one. To them, it was no different from a tragic car accident, with all the answers lying in the obvious circumstances of the setting. And also, I was retired—just meeting with an old colleague in Vail—so I informally joined the Vail Mountain Rescue team.”
“Do you think it’s possible that someone murdered him on the slopes?”
The older man thought about the question for a second. “How could anything like that happen? It’s almost impossible to contemplate. But I hesitate, because in all my reluctance to allow for the possibility of murder, I have to concede that your friend looked as if he was taking a horrible secret to the grave. I’m not certain what happened to him on the slopes that day, but I’ve never been convinced it was a tree that killed him.”
Michael looked across the sun-spangled ice as the breeze whipped up a plume of fine snow and carried it over the skaters’ heads and into the silent woods. “I’m trying to believe your instincts, but you have to admit, it’s not the most scientific evidence.”
“There’s something else,” the older man added. “You’re not the first person to ask me about your friend’s death.”
“What?”
Michael stared at the doctor.
“A few days after your friend’s body was discovered, a man in his late thirties came to my cabin asking the same questions as you.”
His thoughts awhirl, Michael tried on every combination of possibilities. Sarah and he weren’t alone in their search for answers. He thought about his findings at X-Tronic, Glazier’s warning about the twins, Falcon’s suspicious behavior. He thought about Sarah, the files strung across the floor of her apartment, her plea for help. He thought about Kurt’s notes. Then there were Dr. Speer’s suspicions, his impressions from the “accident,” his revelation that someone else was inquiring about Kurt’s death. Michael took deep, slow breaths, feeling his anger as the realization sank in that Kurt had been murdered.
“What else?” he asked the doctor, his voice tense. “This man who visited you—what did he look like? Tell me everything!”
“His face was very ordinary, no outstanding features—as if he were an actor who could make himself look like anyone.” The doctor paused to raise his index finger. “But there was one thing he couldn’t hide. He had a terrible twitch in his left eye that would come and go. A severe case of blepharospasm, I’d say. If you met him, I don’t think you could miss it.”
Another sharp gust whipped across the frozen lake, buffeting Michael’s face with tiny, sharp spicules of ice. And for a moment, his anger was pushed out by fear that much more was going on at X-Tronic than he had imagined. Sarah must be right: Kurt had discovered something, and it got him killed. And now Michael had to wonder whether he was stepping in and launching blindly off down the same ill-fated run as his friend.
16
“I’M AFRAID WE have a problem,” Jerry Diamond said, leaning over his draft beer so that Falcon could hear him over the cheers. They were sitting at a corner table, apart from the crowd that had gathered to watch the Nuggets game.
“With things in Portland?” Falcon asked as the Nuggets sank a three-pointer on the huge projection screen. His eyes turned from the game and casually scanned the digital scoreboard that made the front wall look like a Las Vegas sports bookie’s headquarters. “You said things were going fine up there,” he said, frowning.
“I’m told things in Portland are fine. I’m going there in a few days to make sure. What I’m talking about has to do with
your
responsibilities.”
“I don’t understand,” Falcon said to the man sitting across from him. He suddenly felt put on the defensive. Well, he would stand his ground. Just because the guy outweighed him by sixty pounds of muscle and had a head like a battering ram didn’t mean he could intimidate him.
“Is it always customary for you auditors to work at the client’s office late at night?”
“Part of the job,” Falcon replied. “That’s why they call it ‘busy season.’”
“So you often work at the client’s until three a.m.? I’m just curious, because that’s what your boy Michael Chapman’s been doing.”
The game forgotten, Falcon turned to Diamond with a confused stare, not even glancing back at the screen when the entire bar erupted in cheers.
“You know,” Diamond continued in his deep baritone, “he’s beginning to remind me of another auditor of yours that used to work late at our house.”
“He’s not like Kurt Matthews—trust me!” Falcon said, leaning forward again to be heard over the ambient racket of the bar. “I’ve done my research on Chapman. He’s been with us almost two years. Before that, he was with a small firm in Kansas City. I’ve personally phoned his references and past supervisors. They all say the same thing: he’s loyal, hardworking, gets the job done, but can sometimes use a little motivating, so he does his best work when he has a lot of manager oversight and direction.” Falcon paused to let Diamond digest the words before continuing. “I got the sense he’s a good soldier but not much of a leader. He’ll do only what he’s told. That’s why I handpicked him for this engagement. Trust me, Chapman’s the last person in the world that would discover what’s going on at X-Tronic.”
Diamond’s eyes narrowed. “You told me he got one of the highest scores in the country on the CPA exam.”
Falcon laughed as if the man had somehow missed the whole point. “Oh, he used to be brilliant, all right, but now he’s just burnt out. The last client he was on ended in a total disaster. Now his career’s on the line. He doesn’t have the motivation to pose any threat to us.”
“Then why the hell does our security log have his badge moving throughout our building—elevators
and
staircases—at three a.m.? I’ve seen a printout of all badge activity after regular business hours—your boy’s all over the place. There’s something going on here. And the twins agree.”
“You told this to the twins?” Falcon asked in surprise. Tension returned to his face. He didn’t know which to worry about more: Michael’s unusual behavior or Diamond getting the twins involved.
“I tell them everything—that’s my job!”
Falcon muttered something under his breath. An overstressed waitress, maneuvering through the dense crowd, finally broke through the opening and arrived at their table. She asked if they wanted another round. Falcon nodded with a lackluster expression. She couldn’t help noticing that these were the only two people in the whole bar not jubilant over the Nuggets’ sudden lead.
“What exactly did the twins say?” Falcon asked after she left.
“Well, it seems they think it’s time for them to become more involved. They plan to get more familiar with your Mr. Chapman.” Diamond sat back with a coy grin on his face, as if the twins’ interest in Michael vindicated him of Falcon’s apparent disapproval.
“Christ! They can’t keep getting involved like this.”
“They’re the ones running this show.”
“No, they’re not!” Falcon said, clinching his fist on the tabletop and flexing his arm muscles instinctively. “We all have risks here! They need to respect that. Now, I made sure we wouldn’t have to worry about anything like Kurt’s situation again. And that’s exactly why I picked Michael. He’s not capable of exceeding anyone’s expectations anymore—Christ, even today he called in sick. Does that sound to you like he’s looking for something?”
Diamond shook his head briefly without looking at Falcon, looking as if
he
was now the one disappointed. “Michael wasn’t sick. He spent the day in the mountains near Breckenridge. He met with a doctor who was apparently involved in finding Kurt’s body.”
Falcon’s mouth dropped. “What! How do you know that?”
Diamond looked down at his beer, seemingly hypnotized by the bubbles rising to the inside edge of his glass. As if his thoughts were elsewhere, he said, “We’re already having him watched, John. I’m telling you, your boy is definitely something we have to worry about.”
17
THE NIGHT WIND whipped a thin layer of snow off the three-foot base in the woods, rearranging the powder like desert sand dunes. Only a few miles outside the glimmering lights of Aspen’s village center, the wooded mountainside lay in white-blanketed silence. A gray Siberian husky raced through the snow and jumped up against the base of the tree, barking excitedly.
“What’s you got there, boy?” Marcus Graham yelled. In a red-and-black flannel coat, jeans, and heavy boots, he moved comfortably through the shin-deep snow. He slapped the dog playfully with his big hands, and its barking grew more excited, its tail beating a tattoo against his legs.
Marcus left the dog and ran back toward the house—a stately replica of a Tudor country manor. The three-story mansion had an exterior mostly of pale stone that seemed to blend naturally with the surrounding snow. Stopping at the glass double doors to the courtyard, Marcus turned again toward the trees lining the back of the yard. He bent down, hands against his thighs, and called to the husky. “Thurgin! You stubborn brute, come!”
The only sound to be heard inside the mansion’s den was the crackling of the fireplace. Don Seaton sat in his high-backed leather chair, immersed in a file of documents. Behind the walnut burl desk where he sat, bookshelves covered the entire back wall from floor to ceiling. Near the rolling ladder at the far end stood an outdated globe that still showed the vast empire of the USSR—a gift from an old colleague.
He scanned through the documentation his lawyers had obtained from Harvard Business School—campus records for Lance and Lucas during their university days. Also, there were transcripts of various interviews his lawyers had conducted with former professors and acquaintances of the twins.
As he read the pages, he became more and more concerned that his sons had inherited too many of the traits he could remember from his own youth. Their grades were outstanding, and their professors reconfirmed their quick grasp of even the most complicated economic and financial theory models. But Seaton knew all this. What captured his attention more were the stories of reckless pranks and insubordinate disrespect.
Hearing a light rap at the double doors, he looked up from the folder. One of the solid oak doors opened as Marcus stepped into the den.
“Yes?” Seaton asked in the tone of a sea captain receiving a report from an officer.
“Sir, the jet is ready at the airport, and the car is warming.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” Seaton replied to his bodyguard. “Oh, Marcus?”
“Yes sir.”
“I’ve read most of the information you had compiled about the twins, but despite your concerns, I still don’t think they are a threat to me.”
“Sir, I know this isn’t easy for you to accept, but their behavior at Harvard is consistent with the other inquiries we made at Westington and Dover-Scheffler.”
“So they got a little restless at a couple of boarding schools and an Ivy League university. A lot of kids act the same way when pushed into an environment like that. It’s my fault—I shouldn’t have sent them away so soon after their mother’s death.” Seaton was silent for a few seconds as his thoughts darted back through time to the day his wife died. “Thank you, Marcus,” he finally said, returning to the present and looking back down at the papers. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“Yes sir,” Marcus replied, and left the room.
Seaton set his glass on the mantel, picked up the folders on his desk, glanced once more at the familiar documents, and stuffed them into the remaining space in his soft briefcase.
As he left his den, his suede shoes padded quietly along the corridor to the grand staircase that wrapped the wall of the front entryway. Just as Seaton descended the staircase, Marcus walked into the anteroom from a side door and took his briefcase, then handed him a cashmere overcoat and a gray wool flat cap.
“Where’s Thurgin?” Seaton asked.
“Resting in the game room. He’s a little tired—had a nice frolic in the woods earlier.”
Seaton smiled. “Besides you, Marcus, that dog is the best security money can buy. I don’t think much could slip past him.”
A short, plump man in black livery appeared in the anteroom doorway. “Excuse me, sir,” he said.
“Yes, Hopkins?” Seaton replied.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I wanted to remind you that the boys are having their party here this weekend.”
“Ah, that’s right—I’d nearly forgotten. Do you think we should have someone keep an eye on them?” Seaton said, turning to Marcus. “I’d like to continue monitoring them.”
“I’ve already made arrangements,” Marcus replied.
The billionaire nodded as if he had almost assumed that his head of security would anticipate such things. They both walked out of the mansion toward a red Hummer that idled in the driveway.
Marcus drove them along the packed snow of the mountain roads for twenty minutes before they had weaved their way around enough of the mountain to reach the open land next to the river gorge, which housed Aspen’s small commercial airport. The Hummer was waved through the security gate, and they drove along the edge of the single runway toward a Learjet 60 XR that had emerged from a cluster of private hangars. As the Hummer neared the aircraft, they could hear the droning of the jet engines.
Seaton stepped out onto the runway and was immediately greeted by a tall man in uniform. “Good evening, Mr. Seaton,” he said, smiling.
“Evening, Captain Steiner,” Seaton said to his pilot. “How does the weather look tonight?”