Chapter 52
CHAPTER
THERE HAS TO BE ANOTHER way,” said Rhett to his father as they sat in the latter’s office at Barton’s mansion in the hills.
It was well after midnight. Paranoid beyond belief right now, Rhett had left his car parked down the street and scaled the back wall.
He didn’t want anyone to know he was here, and there were security cameras posted everywhere and men on duty around the clock to watch them.
But he knew where the gaps were. Rhett had quietly let himself in through a side door, roused his father from his room, and they were now meeting over Maggie Nash’s disappearance.
“She’s totally innocent of anything. Not even twenty years old, smart and beautiful with her whole damn life ahead of her. I mean, come on, Dad!”
His father shrugged. “The police think it’s Nash. I saw the video. He molested his daughter? This probably has nothing to do with Steers.”
“Have you asked her?”
“I’m not in a position to ask her anything.”
“You must have been pretty damn desperate to hitch your wagon to her. And then drag me into it.”
“If I hadn’t you wouldn’t have had a pot to piss in, boy. The gravy train had no more gravy in it. And my competitors were just fine with seeing me go right down the crapper. And Maggie looked okay in the video, so what’s the problem?”
“Do you really think that video was legit?” said Rhett. “Do you actually think Nash molested his daughter and then killed the guy Maggie said she told about the abuse?”
“Look, maybe Walt was too good to be true. You’ve had teachers and preachers and people beyond reproach who later turn out to be scum. Maybe he’s one of those.”
Rhett shook his head. “Judith told me that Maggie and Nash were discussing him financing her influencer business. And yet he was screwing her? I just don’t see it.”
“So why would Steers have taken his daughter?”
“Walt tried to jump ship.”
Barton exclaimed, “I know that, boy, stop wasting my time.”
“Only the firm he wanted to jump to turned him down. You said it was because of you. Did you call Zuckerman at Black Cliffs and tell him to back off?”
“No, I told you that. I didn’t have to. They know to fear me.”
“You think that highly of yourself?”
“What other reason could there have been?”
“When I met with Steers last we discussed a potential change in tactics by the FBI. Instead of going after low- and middle-level fruit, the FBI might be aiming higher.”
His father now looked uncertain. “You mean Walt? No, I don’t believe it.”
“He was at the office after Maggie was taken. I met with him. He told me he would do anything to get Maggie back. Anything.”
“So?”
“I think he was being literal, Dad. I think he was telling me that he knew the people I’m working with took her and he would stop working with the FBI if Maggie got returned.”
Barton scoffed, “You’re extrapolating what is just a cockamamie theory to absurdity, boy.”
“You weren’t there. And why else would he come into the office right after his daughter was taken and say that to me?”
“You really think Steers took Maggie? And had her record that video?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“But Nash ran for it.”
“What would you have done?”
“So what do you want me to do about it?”
“It’s Maggie,” snapped Rhett.
“I know it’s Maggie—who I’ve known since she was a toddler, by the way.”
“So we just let her die?”
“There’s still no proof Steers took her. And without that…” Barton’s voice trailed off and he looked out the window.
“And if I bring you proof will you do anything?”
“Look, I feel badly for the gal, I really do, but I’m not getting killed over her. Are you?” Barton’s features hardened. “Hell, I can’t believe even you’re that stupid, boy.”
Rhett flung himself over the desk with such force that he knocked his father out of the chair.
His hands were around the man’s throat and squeezing hard.
His father was old and obese but still had some strength.
He cranked his arm back and slammed his fist multiple times into Rhett’s gut and ribs.
Rhett retaliated by punching his father in the face and knocking him out.
Wincing, he touched his bruised ribs.
“Rhett!”
He turned to see Mindy standing in the open doorway. “What the hell is going on?” She stepped forward and saw her husband lying on the floor. “Oh my God. What did you do?”
“We had an argument. He attacked me and I defended myself.”
“He’s an old man.”
“He outweighs me by over a hundred pounds, and though you can’t see it he got his licks in on me.”
She knelt down and checked Barton’s pulse. “We need to call an ambulance.”
Rhett sat back on his haunches. “Who’s in the house?”
“Colin is in his quarters. Angie’s asleep. The security team’s in their cottage and the house staff are in theirs. Now call a damn ambulance.”
Rhett made no move to do so.
“Okay, fine, you asshole, I will.” She started to rise but he grabbed her arm.
“Rhett! Let me go.”
“He will destroy me.”
“Well, you should have thought about that before you did what you did.”
“He’s a tough guy. He’ll probably come around without going to the hospital.”
“No, he won’t!” she said so emphatically that he stared at her curiously.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“Because Barton is… ill.”
“How ill?”
“He… he has pancreatic cancer. He’d been in a lot of pain. Tons of tests and misdiagnoses. It was found a few months ago. Advanced stage four. They gave him eight months at most.”
“Shit. Why didn’t anyone tell me?” asked Rhett.
“He just told me two days ago and then ordered me to keep it secret.”
“So that’s why he was talking to me a while ago about how things would be after he died.”
“I didn’t know about that, but I guess it makes sense,” she said.
Rhett eyed the set of French doors that opened out to a balcony. “Mindy, you’re always complaining about your shitty prenup, right?”
She stared at him in confusion. “What in the hell does that—”
“Right?”
“Yes. Frankly, I was hoping that a child might change things. But you knew that. And we talked about if I didn’t have a kid with him and set up a competing heir, that you might help me on the prenup.”
“FYI, you were never going to have a kid with him.”
“Well, not now, not with the cancer and everything. The medications he’s on mean that—”
He interjected, “No, I mean he got snipped, years ago.”
“What!”
“He had a vasectomy. He’s got no bullets in the gun.”
“That… that can’t be possible.”
“I can get you the medical records. We talked about it. He told me he was going to blame it on you that you couldn’t conceive. He didn’t want any more heirs, you see.”
She stared down at her unconscious husband. “You son of a bitch.”
“Oh, and when you were at Cannes he was screwing a hooker right here.”
Mindy blanched. “A hooker?”
“A nineteen-year-old named Laurel Burke. Set Dad back two grand for about ten minutes’ pleasure.”
“How do you know that?”
“I drove her home. She had no idea who I was and she laid it all out for me. And it was unprotected sex, just so you know,” he lied.
He knew his father and Burke hadn’t had intercourse.
She had simply serviced him. But he needed to change Mindy’s perspective on her husband, and the more disgusting Rhett could make him out to be, the faster that perspective would transform.
And Rhett didn’t have much time to pull all this together.
Mindy once more looked down at her unconscious husband. “I… I could have caught some disease!”
“So he really didn’t give a shit about you. But if you help me, I’ll help you.”
“How?”
He eyed the French doors again. “That balcony is right over the rear patio. Four stories up.”
“W-what exactly are you getting at?” she said tremulously, her eyes bulging.
“In business parlance this is known as seizing an opportunity. Old man’s terminal, didn’t want to suffer through the agony. Clean up a bit in here. Get him out there. He’ll never feel a thing. All good.”
Mindy said, “Oh my God, are you insane?”
“Okay, then call the ambulance. I claim self-defense, my injuries will back me up, he croaks, and you get financially hosed by a guy who lied and cheated on you. Your call, Min.”
She sat back on her haunches and processed all this. “How… how would you get him out there?”
“Just help me carry him to the balcony. I’m strong enough to get him over the railing. He goes face-first into the pavers, which will coincide with the injuries I caused. I was never here, and you’ll back me up on that when his body is found tomorrow.”
“And the prenup?”
“You challenge it on the grounds of him lying about his ability to procreate and I’ll be your star witness regarding that and his infidelity. I imagine the prenup has enough ambiguous language on moral turpitude for your lawyers to use. And I won’t fight it, nor will my sisters.”
“So how much do I get?”
“I know roughly the terms of your prenup. Let’s say ten times.”
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen.”
She nodded. “Deal. Now, let’s get this done. I think I’m going to be sick.”
A half hour later, a bloody Barton Temple lay dead face down on the stone pavers, and Rhett was whizzing down the road in his Porsche. His adrenaline was running even faster than the car. No need for lines of coke. A simple murder apparently did just fine as a potent narcotic.
Part of him felt liberated. Part of him felt like he was a dead man walking.
He had no idea which feeling, if any, would turn out to be right.
But he needed to take an additional, obvious step. He stopped by the red door marked number twelve and knocked. A sleepy Laurel Burke opened the door dressed only in a T-shirt.
“Do you remember me, Laurel?” he said.
Burke smiled. “I recognize your voice.” She looked him up and down. “And the rest of you ain’t half bad. What do you want?”
He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. “I think you know.”
“Same rate?”
“Double.”
He closed the door and Burke led him into her bedroom.