The Black Painting. Neil Olson

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       5

      It was the right house, but no one was home. How he could know that without leaving the car was a fair question, yet Dave felt certain. There were obvious tells. No vehicles in the drive, no lights, no gently parted curtain. It was more than that, though. There was something about houses, about the way they sat. They announced their occupancy. This one was empty. No spirits within, living or dead. He drank his coffee and read the New York Times.

      He was early. He was always early, a habit picked up during the years when meetings carried potential threat. Arrive first, check out the location, see who else is watching. Dave supposed there might be threats today. The guy was a lawyer, after all, and had reason to dislike him. They would not be of the lethal kind, however, and he was not worried. More curious, which he had not been for some time. Which was the reason he was here at all. That and needing money.

      At 8:55 a.m. he decided to survey the property. It was a nice house. Yellow clapboard with white trim, a porch running along two sides. Big, but no mansion. A top attorney from a wealthy family could do better. It certainly could not compare to the old man’s pile of brick by the sea. Then again, maybe the son would inherit that, the father having keeled over yesterday. Dave had read the obituary in the car. The collector got two columns with a photo. The tone was decidedly negative, which was sad. Dave had known the man a little, and it was hard to like Alfred Morse, but he felt a grudging respect.

      Tennis court, luridly green lawn, bushes all around the house—laurel, azalea? He wasn’t good with shrubs. Primitive security system. Dave was ready to give hidden cameras a friendly wave, as if he were not casing the joint, but he saw none. He was back in the car sipping coffee when Philip Morse drove up, fifteen minutes late. Older model Mercedes, well maintained. The man was also well maintained, yet stress showed around his cold blue eyes. The eyes always give you away, thought Dave, stepping out of his car.

      “Thanks for your patience,” said the attorney. No doubt he had read some asshole’s success-in-business guide that said never apologize. He did not shake hands but headed straight for the house. Dave followed, not hurrying. The side door opened into the kitchen, which was large and white and appointed with the latest gadgets. For the wife, Dave guessed. He would bet twenty bucks that Philip Morse could not boil an egg.

      “I’ve been at my father’s,” the attorney said, lighting the gas jet under the steel kettle. He knew how to do that much. “I need to get back as soon as possible.”

      “I’m sorry about your father,” Dave replied. “I liked him.”

      “You were among the few,” Morse said sourly.

      “I would have been happy to go to his house, under the circumstances.”

      “I wanted this to be private. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

      Dave declined, and Morse turned off the kettle, making nothing for himself. They sat at the kitchen table, and the attorney played with his glasses before speaking.

      “My wife is in Paris,” he said pointlessly. Maybe to explain the empty house. “With friends. She’ll be back for the funeral, of course.”

      “Of course. Your children are around?”

      “My son, Ken. He’s at the house. You know why I asked you here, I suppose?”

      The question had an accusatory edge, but Dave was not playing.

      “I try not to presume anything. I would guess it’s related to your father’s death, except you called me before he died.”

      “I did,” Morse agreed. “You’ll remember I tried to speak to you after your investigation.”

      “I remember,” said Dave. “I wasn’t free to talk.”

      “You invoked client confidentiality. But your client is now deceased.”

      “Well, you would know better than me,” Dave replied carefully, “but I’m pretty sure that confidentiality continues after death.”

      “Client-attorney privilege does,” Morse said, “but you’re not a lawyer. And even lawyers are allowed exceptions when settling estates.”

      “Are you the executor?”

      “I assume,” Morse huffed, tossing his glasses on the table and looking uneasy. “I haven’t seen the will yet. I’m meeting his attorney later, at the house.”

      “That case was a long time ago,” Dave noted. “I’m no longer employed by that firm.”

      “I am aware of that,” said the lawyer snidely.

      “I was required to leave my notes with them.” A half-truth. That he was required to do so did not mean that he did. In fact, Dave had been reviewing them last night. “And my memory isn’t what it used to be. I mean, fifteen years...”

      “So you don’t intend to tell me anything.”

      “About?”

      “About your conclusions. In your report to my father.”

      “I see.” Dave leaned back in his chair. It was what he expected, though the timing was odd. Why all these years later, twenty-four hours before the old man’s death? If the attorney knew the death was imminent, then it was estate-related. Money. It was always money. “I’m not sure what I could say that would be useful.”

      “Then why are you here, Mr. Webster?”

      Yes, why? A rainy afternoon in Madrid. Dim rooms on the second floor of the Prado. Luisa had dragged him in to see something СКАЧАТЬ