The House of Wolves (House of Wolves #1)(15)

“Her past,” Jack said.

“Any particular part?”

“How about all of it?”





Sixteen



BEN CANTOR, THE DETECTIVE investigating Joe Wolf’s death, was waiting for me in the parking lot at Hunters Point after practice, leaning against my car.

“I’m unarmed,” I said.

“I’m not. Got a few minutes to chat?”

“That’s not really a request, is it?”

“Nobody ever has to talk to the police,” Cantor said. “But when they don’t, it’s been my experience that they generally have something to hide.”

He’s not here to screw around.

“I have nothing to hide.”

“Then no reason why we can’t have a nice chat.”

“Haven’t you already asked all the questions you need to ask about Dad’s death?”

“Wouldn’t be here if I had.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“Seems like that’s for you to know and me to find out,” Cantor said.

He was tall, curly hair the color of ink sprinkled with some gray, probably around my age, good-looking, blazer, no tie, jeans, ancient penny loafers. He actually reminded me a little of Jack Wolf, the dark knight of the Wolf family. Cantor was probably in his early forties, as Jack was. Danny and Thomas were more fair, favoring our mother. Cantor wasn’t as good-looking as Thomas Wolf was, I thought. But good-looking enough.

“I thought my father’s death was an accident,” I said.

“Maybe it was. Unless you know something I don’t know.”

I stared at him.

“Let me ask you again. Are you actually looking at me as a suspect?”

He stared back at me. His eyes were so dark they looked navy blue.

“Don’t take it personally. I’m a suspicious type of person, especially when it comes to what we classify as an unattended death.”

He grinned.

“And I figured I better have a sit-down with you before one of your brothers turns you into an unattended death.”

He held up a hand.

“Kidding.”

Sure you are.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“Depends on the subject matter.”

I nodded back toward the field. We walked down the sideline and sat in the bleachers on the home side. I wasn’t sure why he made me feel uneasy. Or maybe uneasy wasn’t the word. Maybe alert was. I told myself to treat him as if he were a reporter. Anything I said could, and would, be used against me.

“Have you had this kind of chat with my brothers?”

“You gonna let me ask the questions or not?”

“Must be the teacher in me.”

“Or the lawyer.”

He stared out at the field.

“I played football at Oakland Tech,” he said. “Wide receiver. Thought I was on my way to Cal before I blew out my knee.”

Guys always have to tell you.

I waited.

“Soooooo, the conventional wisdom on your father’s death is that he got sloppy drunk enough to go over the rail. And that because there’s no fixed ladder on that particular boat, and because there was no reason why he would have dropped down the swim ladder that night, he realized he was screwed once he was in the water and started to swim for it, at least until his heart exploded.”

“Or?”

“Or,” Cantor said, stepping on the word, “somebody snuck on his beloved boat that night and waited until it was far enough out in the water and threw him over the side when he wasn’t looking. Maybe even watched him until he went under.”

“How would that person get back to shore, since the boat was still out in the water when my father’s body washed up?”

“Well, I’ve certainly considered that,” Cantor said, “because that would be some swim in currents like there were that night. Wouldn’t it?”

“You checked the currents.”

“Why not?”

He took his phone out of his pocket, looked at it, put it away.

“I know he used to be a swimmer. And, all due respect, I know he was a boozer, more of one as he got older. So my question to you is, could he have gotten so hammered that night that even the fact that he had been a decent swimmer couldn’t save him once he was in the water?”

I took some time before I answered him.

“I haven’t seen him since January, as I’m sure you know. But even before that, I could see that his tolerance for vodka had started to weaken once he was up into his seventies, along with everything else that was getting weaker, including his memory, even though he would have killed himself before admitting that.”

Cantor was one row below me. He turned and smiled up at me now. Not a bad smile, all things considered. He probably knew that. The cool guys always did. My ex-husband sure as hell always had.

“Did you know what was in his will before the reading?” Cantor said.

Where did that come from?

“My father knew. And the lawyer knew.”

“He could have mentioned it,” Cantor said.

“My father or his lawyer?”

“Either way.”

“Are you calling me a liar, Detective?”