Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery) (9 page)

"Well," Joe said as I drove, "that wasn't much help. You think they're alive now, because of one sentence written in a little girl's diary. And, while I respect that hunch, it still isn't any help in finding them."

"No," I admitted, "it isn't." I pulled onto Brecksville Road and headed north, back toward the city, following roughly the same path the Cuyahoga River takes as it winds its way toward the heart of downtown and into the Flats. The sun was out, and the digital thermometer on the rearview mirror said it was forty-seven degrees outside--not warm enough for me, but the warmest it had been in months. The winter was still clinging to us, refusing to give in to the spring. It had been a long, nasty one, with nearly a hundred inches of snowfall and consistently low temperatures that felt even colder with the frigid winds that whipped in off the lake. Around the first of March it had begun to wear at me. I was annoyed by the lingering traces of snow now, irate at each forecast of another storm, frustrated with the way the cold air squeezed my lungs on every run.

"Next move?" Joe said, interrupting my thoughts. I took my eyes off the van in front of me briefly and glanced at him, not understanding.

"You spacing out on me?" he said. "What do you think our next move should be?"

I returned my eyes to the road and shrugged. "I don't know. We've got some possibilities now, but no facts, nothing close to hard evidence. Seems to me we need to shake something up a little, see what we can stir up."

"That sounds about right," Joe said. "You've always favored the loose cannon approach in the past."

I smiled. "When in doubt, shoot it out."

"Brilliant slogan." He shook his head. "So, who are we going to shake up? You want to find the Russians, take a bat to their car?"

"Have to save something for tomorrow," I said. "I figured we'd start with Jeremiah Hubbard."

"Take a bat to his car?"

"Only if he refuses to see us."

Joe twisted in the seat, looking to see if I was serious. "You really want to talk to Hubbard today?"

"Why not? He--or his associates, if we want to be anal about it--were paying Weston to do something recently. That's about the only thing close to a fact we have. Might as well take it and run with it."

"You assume he'll be so awed by our deductive abilities that he'll confess ties to the Russian mob and let us make a citizen's arrest?"

"It's hard to say what his reaction will be," I said. "But it's even harder to imagine someone
not
being awed by our deductive abilities."

Joe ran his hand through his short gray hair and let it keep going until it was on the back of his neck. He sighed and kneaded the flesh as if trying to drive out a pain that had lodged there.

"Shit," he said. "It's not like I've got any better ideas. Besides, I've always wanted to meet Hubbard."

"You know where his office is?"

He nodded. "Right downtown. Has a wide window that looks out from the Terminal Tower, or something like that."

"Beautiful. I'm sure he'd be happy to show us the view."

"Man that rich? He's got nothing but free time."

A quick check in the phone book confirmed Joe's memory; Hubbard's offices were in the Terminal Tower downtown. It is unquestionably the city's most famous building. Once the tallest building in the city--and second tallest in the world--it is now dwarfed by the Key Building. The Terminal Tower has a presence the city's other skyscrapers lack, though, regardless of their size. Offices in the building went for exorbitant amounts, and I was sure Hubbard's suite would be among the priciest.

Once downtown, I pulled into the Tower City garage and maneuvered the truck into a parking space that had obviously been designed for something more like a Geo Metro or a Honda Civic. Then we
headed into the building. We found a directory in the lobby and determined the offices of Jeremiah Hubbard Enterprises were located on the thirty-second floor of the fifty-two-story building.

"Gosh," Joe said, "I guess we should just run the stairs, huh?"

The elevator door opened with a chime, and I shrugged. "As long as the elevator's right here, we might as well take it."

We rode the elevator up, then walked down the corridor until we located Hubbard's suite. I opened the outer door, and we stepped into an office with plush carpets, dark walnut furniture, and ornate brass lamps. A few paintings hung on the walls, and a small stone fountain bubbled softly to my left. The furniture and decor alone probably cost about what Joe and I would pay in ten years of rent. And it was only the secretary's office.

An attractive, middle-aged blond woman looked up from her computer and smiled at us. She was wearing a phone headset, speaking to someone about appointments, and typing furiously but looked completely nonchalant. Multi-tasking at its finest. She lifted one hand from the keyboard and held up a finger to indicate she'd be with us in just a minute, then returned to her phone conversation and typing. Joe and I settled into a pair of burgundy leather armchairs that matched the walnut furniture nicely.

"This isn't bad," I said. "I mean, sure, there's not the nostalgia of our office with the stadium seats, but other than that it's pretty decent."

"Maybe we should consider relocating," Joe said.

"Maybe."

The secretary finished her conversation, hit a button on the phone to disconnect her headset, and looked up at us once again.

"I apologize for the wait," she said. "Do you gentlemen have an appointment?"

"No," Joe said. "We were hoping to make a quick drop-in. It shouldn't take long."

"I see. And whom do you wish to drop in on?"

"Jeremiah Hubbard," Joe said.

She gave us a gentle, polite smile. It was the kind of smile you might give a four-year-old if he said he wanted to fly an airplane. "I'm sorry," she said. "Mr. Hubbard does not accept any meetings without an appointment. He's an exceptionally busy man."

"Oh, come on," I said, "he must get tired of counting all that money. He'd probably love the diversion."

"Mr. Hubbard will only accept diversions if they make an appointment beforehand," the secretary said, keeping her smile. She had a great mouth--f but not overly prominent lips, and nice white teeth.

I laughed. "Well, could you at least ask him? I think he might be more inclined to talk to us than you'd guess. Tell him we're here to talk about Wayne Weston."

She raised her eyebrows slightly. Weston's story had been all over the news for days, and the use of his name was probably going to raise quite a few eyebrows. I supposed I'd have to get used to it.

"Wayne Weston," she said. "I see. One moment, please."

She hit a few more buttons on the phone and turned her head slightly, then spoke softly for a few seconds and disconnected again. "Mr. Hubbard will be happy to meet with you," she announced. "Follow me, please."

I looked at Joe, and now I raised
my
eyebrows. I hadn't expected it would be quite that easy. The secretary stepped out from behind the desk and led us down another corridor, and I watched the movement of her hips and legs under the pretty-but-professional blue dress she was wearing. She seemed to be putting a little extra motion into the hips. I attempted to kid myself into believing it was for my benefit.

We passed a few doors and then the hall ended in a set of double doors with no nameplate. This would be Hubbard's office. Only he would warrant double doors, and only he would be important enough not to require a nameplate. She pushed open one of the doors and stepped aside, ushering us through.

I walked past her and into an office that came closer to taking my breath away than any office should. It wasn't as spacious as I'd expected, but it was still large enough for a game of touch football. The furniture was more of the burgundy leather and dark walnut, and the room was tastefully decorated, but it was the window that occupied all my attention. A tall span of glass shaped like the top half of an oval looked out on the city below us, and the view was amazing. I could see the War Memorial fountain thirty-two floors below, the sun making it sparkle. I wanted to walk over to the window and look down, spend a few minutes admiring the sights, but then Jeremiah Hubbard rose from behind his massive walnut desk and it was clear we were no longer supposed to find the view the most impressive thing in the room.

"Gentlemen," he said, walking around the desk and offering his hand as the secretary shut the door softly behind us.

Hubbard stood tall in a navy blue suit, his spine rigid, his shoulders back, and his chin held up a bit, but I could tell that beneath the carefully tailored clothes his upper body was softer and pudgier than most people would guess. His hair was something else--a collection of gentle, perfectly contoured white curls that reminded me of a well-trimmed version of a colonial powdered wig. The skin of his face was pressed tight against the bone, his lips narrow and drawn, pulling back a bit at the corners as if his face were stretched just a little too tight. Plastic surgery, probably, designed to keep him from developing a double chin in his advancing years. He wasn't a strikingly handsome man, but his bearing of complete and total assurance--the confidence that showed in his eyes and in every movement--would set him apart in a crowd.

"Lincoln Perry," I said, shaking his hand. "It's nice to meet you, sir. My partner, Joe Pritchard."

He nodded without speaking and shook Joe's hand, then pivoted smoothly on his heel and returned to his desk. He settled into the big
executive's chair with a paternal sigh, and I had the feeling we were about to be chastised for daring to barge into his office and waste his precious time. Time, as they say, is money, and Jeremiah Hubbard loved his money.

"Well," he said, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk, "what's on your minds?"

Joe looked at me, and I nodded for him to go ahead with it. "We'd like to speak with you about Wayne Weston," he said.

Hubbard ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips and frowned. "Would this be the same Weston who has dominated local news coverage recently?"

"The very one," Joe said.

Hubbard nodded slowly, then leaned back in his chair and stared at us. After about ten seconds of silence he raised his eyebrows and rolled his hand slightly, telling Joe to continue.

"Did you know Mr. Weston?" Joe asked.

"Why is that a matter of your concern?"

"We have reason to believe he was working for you, Mr. Hubbard," Joe said. "We were hoping you could tell us a little about that."

"Why do you think he was working for me?"

"Because he recently cashed five checks from companies affiliated with you, and executives at these companies claim to have no association with the man."

"Many companies are affiliated with me, Mr. Pritchard."

"I understand that, sir. What I'm asking you is whether you ever employed Wayne Weston," Joe said bluntly.

Hubbard laid his hands on the desk, laced his fingers together, and leaned forward. "If I had employed an individual like Mr. Weston, it would seem to be for a confidential and possibly sensitive matter, wouldn't it?"

"We have no intention of prying into your personal affairs. However, we have been asked to investigate the possibility that Mr. Weston
was murdered, and to do that effectively we must look into his recent cases. Any information pertaining to you will be kept confidential," Joe told him. "We just need to know what he was working on."

"Who employed you for this?"

"Weston's father."

Hubbard's face changed slightly at that. It was an almost imperceptible relaxation--a slight lessening of his scowl, an easing of the creases in his face. The news seemed to reassure him, though. I wondered who he thought we might be working for, and why he preferred to hear it was Wayne Weston's father.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I'm afraid I simply can't be of any help to you."

Joe nodded. "We respect that decision, Mr. Hubbard. However, I do want to be sure you're aware that we're going to have to pursue this angle, regardless of your cooperation."

The scowl that had lessened when Joe told him we were working for John Weston returned now.

"How much will you make from this case?" he asked. "How much money will you earn for harassing me and my associates?"

Joe frowned. "We have no intention of harassing anyone, sir. But we've been hired to look into Wayne Weston's recent dealings, and if it appears those dealings involved you, then we'll have to look into them."

"How much money?" Hubbard repeated.

"I don't know," Joe said. "That depends how long we're on the case. Why does it matter?"

"Will it be more than twenty thousand?"

Joe glanced at me and smiled slightly. "No, it won't be more than that."

"I'll give you twenty thousand, then," Hubbard said. "Twenty thousand dollars just to stay the hell away from me and my business associates."

I stared at him. We'd been in the office for roughly two minutes, asked only a few questions, and he was willing to pay us
twenty thousand dollars
to leave him alone?

"With all due respect," Joe said, "I don't understand why you're making that offer, sir."