Promise Not To Tell(11)

Her clothes – dark trousers and a close-fitting jacket in a deep, dark rust color – looked expensive. And then there were the boots.

What was it about a woman in high-heeled boots that made a man take notice?

“She seems to be doing all right in the gallery business,” Cabot said.

Anson pursed his lips. “Successful, I’d say. But I don’t think she’s exactly raking in the cash. I’ll do a little research on her gallery and see what I can find.”

“No ring.”

“You noticed, huh?” Anson sounded amused.

“What?” Cabot said.

“Nothing,” Anson said a little too easily.

“She said I was eccentric.”

“Not exactly. I believe what she actually said was that she was accustomed to dealing with temperamental, eccentric artists.”

“Which carries the strong implication that she classifies me in the same category as one of her temperamental, eccentric artists.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’d say you’re not temperamental. Just the opposite. You’re not big on heavy drama, that’s for sure.”

Cabot groaned. “Thanks for that.”

“Expect it’s a result of all that martial arts training.” Anson sat forward and folded his hands on top of his desk. “Moving right along, I do think that Virginia Troy’s got a solid reason to want to go to that island and ask a few questions.”

“So do I,” Cabot said. “Think we should notify Max and Jack that we’ve got a possible new lead on Zane?”

“It’s not a lead; it’s a rumor based on the hallucinations of a woman who was, by all accounts, certifiably nuts. Jack is working a consulting gig in Chicago. He needs to focus. And why drag Max and Charlotte back from their honeymoon if there’s nothing concrete? I vote we find out exactly what we’re dealing with before we go off the deep end.”

“Right.” Cabot headed for his office. “I’ll clean up the paperwork on that insurance job so you can send the bill to the client.”

“One more thing. That lawyer fellow called again.”

“Burleigh?” Cabot paused in the doorway. “What the hell did he want?”

“Same thing he wanted the first time. He wants to talk to you.”

“You gave him my message?”

“Word for word. Told him you haven’t had any connection to your mother’s family in your entire life and you don’t plan to change that situation now. But I can tell that he’s the persistent type.”

“So am I.”

“You want my advice?”

“No, but I’m going to get it, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” Anson said. “Because I’m pretty sure Burleigh’s not going to go away. Find out what he’s after and then you can make an informed decision.”

“My decision is already informed by the fact that my mother’s family disowned her when she ran off with my biological father.”

“A new generation has come of age since your mother got kicked out of the Kennington family,” Anson said. “Be reasonable. Maybe someone found out what happened all those years ago and wants to reach out to you. Reopen the lines of communication.”

“If that was true, why go through a lawyer? Everyone knows that no one wants to get a call from a lawyer.”

“Your choice,” Anson said. “But I’m telling you, Burleigh is not going to go away.”

“Fine.” Cabot moved into his office. “I’ll return his call. I’ll listen to what he has to say and then I’ll tell him to go to hell.”

“That’s the spirit. I left the number on your desk.”

Cabot went into the office, closed the door and sat down. The only thing marring the Zen-like surface of his desk was the sticky note with Burleigh’s name and a telephone number.

He contemplated the digits for a while. Anson was right. Lawyers generally did not give up and go away just because they couldn’t get someone on the phone; at least not well-paid lawyers, and any lawyer calling on behalf of the Kenningtons of San Francisco would be very well paid.

His mother’s family controlled a closely held empire that had been founded in California during the heyday of the gold rush in the 1800s. The original source of wealth had not been gold, however. Thomas J. Kennington had been far too smart to waste time chasing a fantasy with a pick and a shovel. Instead, he had built a nice little empire selling picks and shovels and other equipment to the prospectors who were chasing the fantasy.

Later, Kennington and his heirs had invested in oil and railroads. Eventually those old-school sources of revenue had given way to a more modern, more diversified portfolio that included a lot of valuable California real estate. “You can never go wrong with waterfront property” had been the Kennington company motto since the 1930s. They had proven to be profitable words to live by.

For nearly five decades, the man in charge of Kennington International had been Whittaker Kennington. Cabot had never met his grandfather, and that wasn’t going to change now, because two months ago Whittaker Kennington had collapsed and died. The cause of death was a heart attack. He had been eighty-five and on his third marriage. The family had kept the precise circumstances of his death vague, pleading privacy issues. But they couldn’t control the rumors. The old man had been in bed with his mistress at the time of his death.