Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Present Day
Sherman Oaks, California
Mission Day Two
“Coffee, sweet Jesus, yes, we need more coffee,” Sam told Jules as he looked in the side mirror and waited for the traffic to roar past their rental car. “Text me if you think of anything else.”
Jules answered his cell phone, “Cassidy,” watching Sam open his door and swiftly get out of the car, jogging around the back and onto the sidewalk.
“Oh, good, I was afraid we were going to play telephone tag.” It was Ernest Harper himself, clearly calling from his car. And Jules had been so sure Greg-the-receptionist’s Mr. Harper’s left the office had been a flat-out lie. “Have you found our Emily?”
“Not yet,” Jules said. “We were hoping we could swing by for another quick meeting. Maybe first thing tomorrow morning?”
“I’m afraid I’ll be in court all morning tomorrow, and then I’m out of town for the weekend. I don’t expect to be back until, well, next Wednesday at the earliest. Can it wait until then?”
“Hmm,” Jules said. It was more than a little strange, coming from the man who’d been pushing hard for this to be handled ASAP. “I’d rather not wait. Do you have a few minutes to talk right now? A few questions have come up that we’re hoping you can clarify.”
He’d really wanted to do this face to face, with Sam’s eyes on the lawyer, too, with the former SEAL’s highly tuned bullshit meter operating at full strength.
He leaned in his seat to look out the windshield toward the grocery store, but Sam had double-timed it down to the corner to catch the walk signal and was nowhere in sight.
He was probably already inside of the Ralph’s, embracing his inner eleven-year-old and loading seventeen large boxes of Cocoa Puffs into his shopping cart, go figure.
“I’ve got about five minutes,” Harper said. “Maybe more if the traffic gets worse. What am I saying? This time of day, the traffic always gets worse.” He chuckled and sounded almost human for a change.
So Jules took a chance. “That’s great, and... I’m sorry but I’m in the car, too. My note-taking options are limited and my partner’s off on an errand. I’m going to record our conversation, so we don’t have to bother you again.” Don’t ask, just do. He hit record on his phone.
There was, however, silence. From the lawyer. Because yeah.
Jules cheerfully plunged ahead. “First things first. I’m still waiting for a contact number for Clayton Spencer.”
“Mmm, yes, sorry, I’m afraid that file is back in the office.”
“If you could just pass that info along to Greg—I won’t have to bother you.”
“Of course,” Harper said. “I’ll do that.”
Like hell he would, but okay.
“So we just spoke to the housekeeper, Rene,” Jules said, “who mentioned that Mr. Devonshire had some issues with his son after Milt’s release from prison—that would be eleven years ago, right around the time Milt got kicked out of the house.
I’m assuming that’s what happened, rather than Milt choosing to leave as he told us on Wednesday—please do correct me if I’m wrong. ”
As he’d hoped, Harper couldn’t resist shit-talking Wig-Milt, even on tape, but he tsked and sighed a bit before he said, “I think that’s safe to assume. I never got the complete story from Mr. Devonshire, but, yes, it’s highly likely that he... invited his son to leave.”
“Was there bad blood between them?” Jules asked.
Outside the rental car, the traffic was getting heavy, a red light at the intersection backing things up all the way to where he was parked.
In the car next to him—a bright yellow Volkswagen—an older woman was loudly arguing with what looked to be her daughter, their voices carrying in through the window that Sam had left open.
He’d taken the key, so Jules couldn’t put the window up.
Instead he cupped his hand around his phone to keep their angry words out.
“I mean, aside from the no-doubt very strong feelings Mr. Devonshire surely had when his only child admitted that he was guilty of manslaughter. To be frank, I’d like to know more about the alleged death threats from Milt Junior that precipitated the need for the heightened security at the estate. ”
More silence from Harper before he oh-so-carefully said, “And this pertains to the case how exactly...?”
“Being thorough in our investigation,” Jules told the lawyer as the light turned green and angry mommy and her offspring pulled away, “increases our odds of finding Emily as quickly as possible. We’re looking at Mr. Devonshire’s entire life in great detail—and his relationship with his son, particularly in his final years, has created quite a few questions.
Was Emily someone he turned to for help of some kind, due to the new experience of having his son threaten his life?
Or was the new experience related to having a son in prison—that must’ve been quite a shock for someone of Mr. Devonshire’s standing. Or—”
“Understood,” Harper said. “Again, Mr. Devonshire kept the details private, but he was concerned for his safety. Despite reaching some kind of questionable financial settlement with Milt Junior.”
“Questionable financial settlement,” Jules repeated.
“Mr. Devonshire insisted that the money was a gift to his son, but... circumstances imply otherwise.” Sniff.
“If you look back at the financial records from that time, I’m sure you’ll see it,” Harper continued.
“A five million dollar payment—I believe it was in two separate checks—to Milt Junior on Mr. Devonshire’s tax documents from that year. ”
Five million.
Holy shitballs. Jules managed to not say that aloud.
He also didn’t shout about the fact that Harper was surely only telling him this because Wig-Milt had given them full access to those financial documents.
The lawyer no doubt figured he’d drop this news now rather than leaving them to wonder if he was somehow involved in whatever illegality this was covering up.
A gift.
Of five million dollars.
Okay.
“That’s quite the large sum,” Jules said instead. “To just hand over to—” he said a silent apology to Milt “—you know, a twenty-one-year-old screw-up.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Harper said primly as out on the street the traffic again slowed to a stop.
This time the vehicle that pulled next to Jules was an enormous black SUV with darkly tinted windows.
He could’ve sworn he’d seen them before—were they circling the block?
He half expected the window to pull down and the driver to gesture to him in an unspoken Are you leaving soon message, even though he wasn’t sitting in the driver’s seat.
He purposely looked away, out the other window.
“Do you think Mr. Devonshire gave that money to his son as some kind of, I don’t know, bribe, like, Take this money and go live somewhere far, far away from me?” Jules asked Harper.
“He said it was a gift,” the lawyer repeated because of course he had to. Bribes were illegal—or at least they were back all those years ago. These days, however, who could know? “Taxes were paid.”
“Got it,” Jules said as the SUV finally pulled away. What was next on his list? “Ooh, security cameras. The system in the house. Is it still functional?”
“As far as I know, yes,” Harper said.
“The cameras looked older,” Jules said. “Which is not a problem. I was just wondering if you had a sense of when the system was installed. I’m guessing... fifteen, twenty years ago...?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“So it was before you started handling Mr. Devonshire’s finances...?” Jules asked.
“Again, how does this pertain—”
“Just dotting our I’s and crossing our T’s,” Jules said cheerfully.
Harper cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m approaching my destination.”
“Just a few more questions,” Jules said, channeling Sam who would go point-blank at this we’re done here moment.
“You’ve said that Mr. Devonshire’s naming Emily Johnson as his heir was a surprise to you, that you believed he’d leave his entire legacy to his son.
Why, may I ask, would Mr. Devonshire leave anything to a son who not only threatened him, but who—as you imply—embezzled or flat-out stole millions of dollars from him? ”
The silence extended for so long, Jules thought for a moment that Harper might have hung up. But then the lawyer cleared his throat and spoke.
“You’re still a young man, Mr. Cassidy,” he said. “As we age, as death approaches, we soften. Was Milt a disappointment to his father? Yes, in so many ways. But he was Mr. Devonshire’s only son. I’m sorry, I really must go. Let my office know if you have any further questions.”
“Thank you—” Jules said, but the lawyer had already ended the call. Way to not really answer that last question, Ernie, but okay. And Jules hadn’t had a chance to mention that Gavin LaCrosse was no longer a potential source of information, due to his no longer being alive.
Except maybe he’d left that out intentionally—every passing conversation with Harper made him squint at the man harder and harder. Although the idea that Harper had somehow engineered LaCrosse’s heart attack was an enormous stretch. He was sketchy, but murder sketchy?
His own words to Sam from earlier echoed. This is not that kind of case.
It really wasn’t. Except... No.
The idea that Harper and Wig-Milt were somehow working together didn’t sit right, either. Especially since Wig-Milt seemed even less murder-sketchy than the lawyer.
And then there was that five million dollars. Jules was going to internally wow about that for a while. What did it say about Wig-Milt, that he hadn’t burned through it in the eleven years since Daddy-Milt signed the check?
Not bad for a fuck-up.
Unless, of course, he had burned through it and, like Sam had suggested, come back for more, but gotten turned down.
Except he had the money—a great deal of it—to pay their hefty retainer.
And the fact that the son had said repeatedly, and truly seemed to be sincere, that he had enough?