Hide (Detective D.D. Warren, #2)(71)

"My son is smart. I'll grant him that. And as I said, he has an appreciation for the finer things in life. I can't imagine him living on the streets any more than he could. So in the morning, we made a deal. He would stay at Boston State Mental until his twenty-eighth birthday. At which point, assuming he fulfilled the terms of our deal, I would release his inheritance. Three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, and Christopher knew it. He went, and we never saw him again."

"You never visited?" Sinkus clarified.

"My son is dead to us."

"Never checked on his progress, not even by phone?"

"My son is dead to us, Detective."

"So, you didn't know your son got himself in a bit of trouble at Boston State Mental. Ended up in Bridgewater."

"When Boston Mental announced it would be closing, I called over. The doctor informed me that Christopher had already been sent to Bridgewater. I found it convenient."

Sinkus frowned. "And on Christopher's twenty-eighth birthday?"

"A note arrived at my attorney's office. 'A deal is a deal,' it read. I signed off on the funds."

"Wait a minute," D.D. spoke up sharply "Christopher turned twenty-eight in April of 1982. You're telling me that he came into three million dollars on that day?"

"Actually he inherited three point five. The funds were well managed."

"And he accessed these funds?"

"He has made periodic withdrawals over the years."

"What?"

Eola Sr. turned to his lawyer. "John, if you would, please."

Barron lifted up a leather briefcase, briskly snapped it open. "This is confidential information, Detectives. We trust you will treat it accordingly"

He passed around copies of a stapled sheaf of papers. Financial records, Bobby realized, quickly skimming the sheets. Detailed financial records of Christopher's trust fund, and the date each time he made a withdrawal.

Bobby's gaze went straight to Barron. "How did he make contact? When Christopher wanted money, what did he do, pick up the phone?"

"Ridiculous," Barron snapped. "It's a trust fund, not an ATM. We required a written request, properly signed and notarized, which we kept as part of the official records. Keep flipping, you'll find a copy of each sheet. You'll see that Christopher was partial to increments of one hundred thousand, roughly two to three times a year."

"He wrote, you cut him a check?" Bobby was still quizzing, rapidly flipping sheets.

"He wrote, we liquidated funds, rebalanced the portfolio, and then cut him a check, yes."

"So these checks were never collected in person? You have a mailing address?" This was too good to be true. Which it was, as he spotted on the last page. "Wait a minute, you wrote the check to a bank in Switzerland?"

Barron shrugged one shoulder. "As Mrs. Eola mentioned, Christopher spent some time overseas. Obviously, he set up a bank account while he was there."

Bobby arched a brow. Normal nineteen-year-olds did not open Swiss bank accounts. Not even the spoiled sons of Boston's upper class. It felt like a preemptive strike to him. The act of a man who was already assuming he might need to hide assets sometime soon, perhaps for a life on the run. Made Bobby wonder what all Christopher had been doing during his "grand tour" of Europe.

Things were wrapping up now. Eola Sr. had his arm belatedly around his wife as she blotted at her smeared mascara. He whispered something in her ear. She gave him a tremulous smile.

"How is your daughter, Mrs. Eola?" Bobby asked softly

The woman surprised him with her flinty answer: "She's a lesbian, Detective. What else would you expect?"

Mrs. Eola rose. Her anger had invigorated her. Eola Sr. capitalized on the moment, ushering her out the door. The lawyers and secretary filed out behind them, one massively overpriced brigade, heading for the elevators.

In the lull that followed, Sinkus spoke first.

"So," he asked D.D., "does this mean I can go to Switzerland?"




[page]
Chapter 26


THE EMERGENCY TASK-force meeting started late, given the overrun of the Eola interview. The majority of the detectives, however, had arrived as scheduled, meaning that by the time Bobby, D.D., and Sinkus appeared, the pizza boxes were empty, the soda consumed, and not even a breadstick remained.

Bobby eyed the lone survivor—a plastic cup of red pepper flakes. He thought better of it.

"All right, all right," D.D. was saying briskly "Gather 'round, listen up. For a change, we have developments to discuss, so let's get cracking."

Detective Rock yawned, then tried to cover the motion by fanning his piles of paper. "Heard we got a note," he said. "Real deal or wannabe wacko?"

"Uncertain. We announced Annabelle Granger's name in the beginning, but never released details on the locket or the other personal items. So our anonymous author either has inside information or is the real deal."

That perked them up. D.D.'s next announcement, however, elicited collective groans. "I have copies of the note to distribute. But not yet. First things first: our nightly debrief. Let's figure out what we know now, then we'll consider how this little community outreach"—D.D. waved the stack of photocopies—"fits into the puzzle. Sinkus, you go first."