May the Best Man Die Page 17

  “I'll do that, Larry.”

  He bounced away and I closed the door behind him. Immediately, Aaron pulled out the mailer again.

  “Shouldn't we give that to the police?” I asked.

  “But then we'd never know what was in it, would we, Stretch? And that”—he tilted the mailer and shook out the silver disc inside—“would spoil the fun. Besides, it wasn't even sealed. They'll never know.”

  Apparently the fun of tumbling me to the floor was forgotten for the moment, so I tried to forget it, too. For now. Besides, I was busy being eaten up with curiosity. This wasn't a music CD, some late Christmas present that Jason meant to mail. This was an unmarked, unlabeled disc, an electronic missive from a dead man, meant for some unknown destination, and possibly full of revealing clues about a hideous murder. Clearly, it should be turned over to the authorities as soon as possible . . .

  The PC upstairs in my workroom took a few minutes to power up. Aaron spent the time pacing along the windows and jingling the change in his pocket. When I inserted the disk and opened the CD folder on my screen, two icons appeared. He hung over my shoulder and jingled some more.

  “Would you quit that? I'm trying to figure out—”

  “Look, there's a document file called READ ME.”

  “I see it.”

  Two people cannot operate one mouse and keyboard simultaneously. As I tried to open READ ME, I kept getting error messages and Aaron kept pointing to the screen and hovering his hands over mine.

  “Try right-clicking—”

  “Let me do it, would you? It's my computer.”

  “OK, OK, but if you just—”

  “Just what?” I gave the mouse a final click and a document sprang into view. “There! I told you I could—oh, my God.”

  It was a blackmail note, vicious and crude.

  You saw the pictures, now see the movie!!! You think you know who we are now, so what? You can't prove anything, and if you try to, this video goes straight to the Internet. All those people watching the two of you screwing over and over and over. Everywhere you go, anybody you meet will have seen you naked and crazy. If you don't believe it, watch it yourself with the decrypt we sent. Get the money together the way we said, or else.

  I stared at it, horrified, and as I stared, the words suddenly blinked off and on. Once, twice, and with the third blink they disappeared entirely. “What'd you do?” demanded Aaron.

  “Nothing! I didn't even touch the keys.”

  “Well, get it back!”

  “I'm trying . . .” I closed the blank file, but then the icon itself disappeared. I removed and reinserted the disk, even restarted my computer, but READ ME had vanished. The only icon remaining on my screen was a tiny camera, presumably the video file referred to in the note. And it stubbornly refused to reveal its contents, no matter what I tried.

  Finally I yielded the keyboard to Aaron. He downloaded various programs from the Internet, growing more frustrated by the minute, but none of them worked on the video file.

  “It's encrypted all right,” he said at last. He'd shed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Oxford cloth, in a cornmeal color that set off his olive skin. “And the note was programmed somehow to delete itself. Quick, let's try and reconstruct the wording. We should have done that right away. The details could be important.”

  But the details, as we recalled them, didn't tell us much. Two people, maybe more, had pictures and a video of two other people having sex, and they wanted money to keep it out of the public eye. The victim knew, or thought he knew, the identity of the blackmailers, but the blackmailers didn't care. Or said they didn't.

  “Also, this is part of a series of messages,” Aaron reasoned, “because there were references to something already sent.”

  I nodded. “A decrypt, whatever that is. A decryption program? And without it, we can't watch the video. Not that I want to.”

  “Me, neither,” he said with a grim scowl. “Blackmail is the ugliest, most cowardly crime . . . But watching it is the only way to find out who Kraye was blackmailing. Though I think I can guess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had something to tell you, remember? I've been talking to Peter Yan's son, the gum-chewer at Noble Pearl. Those ‘eminent gentlemen' who gamble there after hours are pretty damn eminent. Judges, a couple of state senators, possibly the governor when he's in town.”

  “The son told you all this?”

  A quick grin. “He doesn't hold his liquor very well. I'd want to confirm that last bit with another source, though. The gov's a little flighty, but he's not stupid.”

  “And he surely wouldn't kill anyone, or have them killed. It's unbelievable!”

  “Murder is unbelievable, Stretch, but Jason Kraye is still dead.” Aaron went back to pacing. His hair was tousled, his forearms brown and sinewy. “What are the odds he was killed in a random bar fight, right in the middle of a blackmail scheme? No, I think our murderer was either his partner in crime, or else his victim.”

  “Or victims,” I said glumly. “There could have been several.”

  “True. We'll have to keep following up—” He was interrupted by another knock. Someone had come up the outside staircase and was waiting on the landing. “Tell me that's not Larry again.”

  The second floor of my houseboat has two parts: the good room, where I met with clients, and the workroom beyond it, with a connecting door in between. I crossed the good room and opened the door to a Venezuelan bearing gifts.

  “Apologies!” cried Filipo, setting the ill-fated carrier bin down on the adorable wicker love seat that pleases brides and makes grooms fidget. “Apologies to Joe, and now to you. A thousand thousand apologies.”

  “Where were you yesterday?” I demanded. Then I looked more closely at his face; the swarthy skin was bruised and abraded, and one eye was swollen. “Did you have an accident?”

  “No, no.” Filipo grimaced ruefully. He noticed Aaron watching from the workroom doorway, and turned his back slightly before muttering, “Was Alonzo. He thinks the joke is not funny.”

  “More gifts?” asked Aaron. “Honestly, Stretch, I can't keep up with this guy. I'd better get going.”

  “Wait a minute, would you? We're not done. Filipo, are you in trouble with Joe? You really shouldn't have taken this stuff, but as long as it's all here—”

  “Joe says I am fired, then says I am not.” He shrugged. “We have big party tonight. He needs me. If Carnegie forgives, Joe forgives.”

  “You're forgiven, then.” I had my own place back; I could afford to be generous. “Just stop harassing Alonzo. And tell him he can have those roses in the white vase, for his girlfriend.”

  I waved as Filipo descended the stairs, then shut the door and turned to see Aaron giving me a speculative look.

  “So, we're not done?”

  “I meant with the disk! We should turn it in to the police.”

  “And tell them what, Stretch?” He crossed the room to me, putting on his coat. “That it came from Li Ping and contained a blackmail note that has now disappeared? What does that accomplish, besides getting her in trouble and getting us laughed at?”

  “But maybe they could decrypt the video.”

  “Oh, no,” said Aaron, and clenched his jaw in a way that I recognized. “I'm not doing the blackmailers' job for them.”

  “The police would keep it private. Wouldn't they?”

  He laughed grimly. “Mike Graham might. But you know how often evidence goes missing, even in a well-run cop shop? And a sex film that gets passed around for various technicians to work on, how private would that be? Kraye's victim might be the murderer, but he might not. No, I know someone who might be able to crack this, someone I trust. I'll try him first.”

  I conceded that point, but I had another one to make. “About what happened earlier . . .”

  “Yes?” He moved closer.

  I took a deep breath and told myself, I have principles. “Don't ever do that again.
”

  “Only by request, Slim.” Aaron grinned, and opened the door to leave. “Only by request.”

  To call the rest of my day “disjointed” would be a considerable understatement. Unpacking all my stuff, while trying to think about party arrangements, while trying not to think about Aaron's arms around me, while pondering mysterious blackmail schemes, while anticipating an evening with Kevin—it was all too much. When I found myself putting my hair dryer in the refrigerator, I stopped cold and sat down at the kitchen table for some methodical deep breathing.

  That's when I got the final good-news phone call: Qwik-Kleen had found my jade silk dress. Now there's comfort and joy for you. So what if I didn't know the identity of Jason Kraye's victim, or whether I should listen to Aaron's explanations, or if tonight's party would further my romance with Kevin Bauer.

  At least I knew what I was going to wear.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THIS TIME I ARRIVED EARLY, LIKE A GOOD LITTLE EVENT PLANNER, and spent a busy but straightforward two hours in the Habitat warehouse, directing the placement of tables and decorations, testing microphones for the carolers and the speeches, and showing the DJ where to set up his sound system and portable dance floor. Kevin's “cookies, punch, and a boom box” staff party had evolved into quite a festive affair. Habitat had put on a children's party at the local community center that afternoon, with games and a Santa, which meant that tonight's bash didn't even have to be kid-proof. Kids are great, but adult parties are easier.

  Fiona was on hand to help me out, along with a couple of warehouse workers, three waiters from Solveto's, and the panini chef Joe had found for me. He was a long, lanky, gray-ponytail type named Rudy, and to my delight, he and Fiona hit it off right away.

  They bantered as they ran in a power cord for the sandwich grill, and joked as they arranged the trays piled with provolone, prosciutto, roasted peppers, and other delights. Then Rudy got down to the serious business of testing his grill, and Fiona joined me for the final decorative touches.

  “Do you mind MFC forcing its way in on your plans?” I asked her as we set a centerpiece of candy canes and roses on each white-clothed table.

  “I did at first,” she admitted. Fiona's braids were gone tonight, her hair swept back in a soft chignon, a perfect style for her long vintage dress of deep brown velvet. “But then I thought, if we're going to change ownership, why not do it in style? Besides, Kevin says that MFC has promised no layoffs. It's time to party!”

  As we worked, our few voices echoed strangely in the dim, cavernous space all around us. The toylike forklifts were parked and silent in a far corner, and the tiers of coffee sacks rose high into the shadows. I looked around, with the last centerpiece in my hands, and had the same thought I always did in a new venue: that the warehouse was like an empty theater. At seven P.M. the lights and music would come up, the cast would appear, and the stage would spring into vibrant, glittering life.

  And there's the leading man now. Kevin Bauer made an undramatic entrance—did he always wear that same sweater?—but when he spotted me, his eyes lit up. I set down the roses and he gave me a quick, decorous hug.

  “Carnegie, you've done wonders! Who'd have guessed the place could look so nice?” He frowned a little at the waiters, one unwrapping platters of Christmas cookies, another lining up wineglasses at the bar, while the third set out hot plates for the mulled wine and spiced cider. “You're sure they understand, no food or drink outside this area? And those glasses had better be—”

  “Plastic,” I assured him. “We may get a few spills, but there won't be any broken glass in the coffee beans, I promise. Shall we go welcome the Tylers?”

  Ivy had the character actress role tonight: devoted wife, proud businesswoman, indulgent mother of the difficult but undeniably lovely ingénue. MFC's chief executive wore a chic jacket and skirt in Yuletide-red silk, with starry diamonds at her throat and wrist.

  But Sally's long pale hair and short black dress made her mother look almost dowdy—a contrast that Sally no doubt enjoyed. Charles Tyler wore a dark suit and a gay red vest, but he looked gaunt and worn. Frank, affable as ever, went off to fetch their drinks, while Charles sank into a chair and smiled fondly at both his “girls.”

  He didn't smile at me. Last night's flirtatious courtliness was gone, replaced by a chill, formal courtesy. It chilled even further as the doors were propped open, and Lou Schulman lumbered eagerly across the room toward me. When Charles saw that, he turned away, his face stern, and concentrated on the Habitat people that Kevin was introducing to him. Most of them seemed quite impressed; even after years in seclusion, Charles Tyler was a celebrity.

  “I was kinda hoping you'd wear that same dress,” said Lou.

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” What's your role in this production, I wondered. Minor villain, or just comic relief?

  “That one's OK, too.” He glanced around. “Nice party. Hey, have they got any beer?”

  “Yes, there's beer,” I assured my gallant swain. “You know, I was hoping to talk to you some more. About your investments, remember?”

  A complacent smile spread across his features. “Sure. Let's go somewhere private, though. How 'bout up in my office?”

  “Well, I shouldn't leave the party for very long. . . .” I thought fast. Lou's office, the elevated computer center where I'd cut my hand, was off in the roasting area, a little too remote for comfort. And the more I thought about it, the more Lou seemed to be a likely candidate for Jason's partner in blackmail. But surely an unlikely murderer?

  “Come on, just for a few minutes,” he said. “I got lots to tell you.”

  “Well . . .” At least the office had glass walls. If I opened the venetian blinds, what could happen there in plain sight, either villainous or amorous? Lou was our best lead.

  “OK, but I've really got to do my job first.” I checked my watch. Seven-fifteen. “I'll meet you there at nine o'clock?”

  “You got it.”

  Lou went off in search of his brew, and I was free to watch my event unfold. The traffic pattern I'd envisioned was flowing nicely. People poured in through the side door from the gravel parking lot—I had a fellow out there directing cars—passed the corridor to the rest rooms, and stopped at the coatracks I'd rented. Then, just inside the door by the main bar, they were met by Kevin, Ivy, or one of their lieutenants, who offered personal greetings, introductions, and name tags.

  Simon Weeks was in his element: shaking hands, slapping shoulders, and keeping a close eye on Ivy. If she faltered for a name, he provided it, and when she looked around for her drink, he was there to place it in her hand. He was her go-to guy, all right, and I couldn't help wondering if he was something more as well.

  Another greeter was Madison Jaffee, the picture of sophistication in a sapphire-blue sheath and silver jewelry. Or was it platinum? She waved at me across the tables, then went back to work, smiling at each Habitat employee that Fiona introduced to her. MFC and Habitat were presenting a graciously united front tonight.

  On a low stage in the center of the party space, the carolers led off with “Winter Wonderland,” and continued with a spirited medley of holiday songs. By seven-thirty there were laughing throngs at the bar and the panini station, happy chatter was rising all around, and the combined body heat of the revelers was taking the chill off the air. I could smell cider and warm wine, Rudy's sizzling sandwiches, and beneath it all, the dark perfume of coffee.

  Even with mysteries on my mind, I do love a good party.

  The media people were easy to spot; Madison was providing each one with a sample pack of coffees and a press release in a glossy MFC folder. I made sure the TV fellow with the shoulder cam had enough light to work with, and that the reporters got seats by the stage and a good supply of food and drink. Free food may not influence the press directly, I had found, but it sure didn't hurt.

  Then MFC's marketing contingent arrived, and a new player took the stage: Darwin James, tall and handsome and
stiff with self-consciousness. His dark suit and tie stood out among his casually-dressed coworkers as much as his handsome ebony face stood out among their white ones.

  I stared, and I wasn't the only one. A buzz of curious whispering began, as the people who followed local news informed the people who didn't, that the black guy over there had been a “person of interest” to the police in a murder case.

  I was curious myself, but on another count. What is Ivy thinking? Or does she even know—

  Ivy knew perfectly well. She shook Darwin's hand, then brought him to meet Kevin and Fiona. As a vote of confidence in her employee, it couldn't have been more public, or more unmistakable. Ivy Tyler was announcing to the world her belief that Darwin James had been falsely accused.

  Aaron, the cynic, might say that she was also scoring political correctness points for having a black man at her photo op. Or would he? Like so many biographers, Aaron seemed to have become infatuated with his subject.

  But never mind Aaron. I shared Ivy's confidence in Darwin, so I went over to greet him myself, with a cup of hot cider for each of us.

  “Hey, Carnegie.” He took the cider. “Not spiked, is it?”

  “Not even a little.” Only Lily's brother could joke at a time like this. “Darwin, it was brave of you to come tonight.”

  “Well, Frank talked me into it, and Lily, too, when I told her I was invited.” He ventured a smile. “She says for you to have fun tonight, and for me to report back on this Kevin person. Is that him up there?”

  “That's him. Listen, I want you to know how sorry I am—”

  “I do know,” he said gently. “Shush now, the man's talking.”

  Kevin had stepped onto the stage, prompt to the eight P.M. time noted on our agenda. He thanked the carolers, and promised the crowd more music soon. Then he tugged nervously at the cuffs of his sweater, frowned at the floor, and launched into a lengthy speech about the history of Habitat, the virtues of shade-grown coffee, the merits of his employees, the advantages of teaming up with a major player like MFC, and . . .