Part 7 (2/2)

”Thanks for...back there.”

”What?”

”For acknowledging that my wife was a person. A lot of people seem to have forgotten that fact.”

Danny never ceased to amaze her. From p.i.s.sant to reasonably profound in the s.p.a.ce of thirty minutes or less. ”Well, shame on them.”

A mile or so down the road, her glance caught him looking at her. She'd put on sungla.s.ses back at the Jeffco complex, so she knew he couldn't see her eyes.

”When does the pain go away?” he asked. ”How long does it take to let it go? How long did it take you?”

Rae shook her head. ”That's what my daughter wants to know. Truth be told, I'm still a work in progress.”

Rae parked in front of Bayfield Commons, a low L-shaped building on Forty-fourth Avenue. Her first thought was that this was an unlikely setting for a millionaire's office.

Unprosperous. The surrounding buildings were equally shabby. A street person of indeterminate s.e.x browsed a trash canister across the street. She checked the address again against her written notes. This was the place. Talk about keeping a low profile!

She was glad that Sandy had been able to set up the appointment so quickly. Usually fearless, Rae had balked at the prospect of meeting hostility from Danny's in-laws. She'd been relieved when Sandy had taken on the task and reported it a piece of cake.

At 9:00 a.m., the day promised increasing warmth. The faint odor of garbage wafted toward her from a Westside Disposal vehicle that emerged from an alley behind the building.

A sign above the main entrance read Bayfield Enterprises. Rae peered through the gla.s.s in the door. Seeing no one, she tried it, found it unlocked and entered a small, dingy reception area with an asphalt tile floor. The desk, centered in a small work station to the right of the entry, was unoccupied.

Rae shut the door hard, and called into the semi-darkness, ”Mr.Garvin?”

No answer. As her eyes began to adjust to the dimness, she glanced around the room, looking for something which might reflect a personality, drawing a blank. The room smelled of musty old papers.

”Mr. Garvin?” Louder this time. Then the sound of a door closing somewhere in the back part of the building.

Rae cracked a Venetian blind-the old-fas.h.i.+oned, metal kind-by the entry door. That was when she first noticed the faded picture that hung on the wall. A hawk-faced older man, flanked by a youngish woman and a light-haired teen-age girl, his arms encircling each like snares. The Bayfield clan, no doubt. But who was the dark-haired young man standing slightly apart from the threesome? Not bad looking, thought Rae. Even in the poor light, she could make out dimples and a widow's peak. The women, too, were attractive, but looked as if they were in the clutches of some carnivorous old bird.

A sound of movement from the next room pulled her attention from the picture, then fluorescent ceiling lights illuminated the area.

”Mrs. Esposito?” His voice crackled like dry twigs. Rae turned to see a thin, bent man emerge from a door at the south end of the reception area. ”I'm Sam Garvin.” He offered a bony hand which she shook tentatively, afraid it might break.

”Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” As she handed him her business card, Rae processed his use of ”Mrs.” rather than the more usual ”Ms.” in this setting, concluding that perhaps Sam Garvin knew a lot more about her than she might have wished.

”Our secretary is out ill today. Please excuse the dark office. I just got here.”

”No problem.” She looked him over, trying to make her glance un.o.btrusive. He was taller than his slumped posture made him appear at first. Square-jawed, hollow-cheeked. Colorless eyes followed her from behind wire-rimmed gla.s.ses. Spa.r.s.e dark hairs topped his head, in contrast to the gray fringe above his ears. Rae judged Sam Garvin to be in his seventies.

”I have the conference room set up for you,” he said.

Sam preceded her down a narrow hall that had several doors along the way. Midway down the hall, he opened one of them and led her into a reasonably lighted conference room which contained oak furniture that had probably been around for a while-not shabby but having seen a good deal of use.

Rae took the seat he offered, then removed pen and writing pad from her attache case.

”I have some questions I'd like to go over with you, if that's okay.”

Sam took a seat opposite her. ”Fire away.” A faint, lopsided grin creased his countenance. ”Our records are at your disposal.”

”Thank you.” Rae measured her tone, editing out the surprise she felt at detecting no hostility in the man's demeanor.

”I guess the first order of business is locating Mrs. La.s.siter's tax returns. Can you help me out?”

”I prepared them up until she married Danny. Then she said she would be using her husband's tax person.”

”That would be me, but I never met the lady or saw any of her financial records.”

Rae bent down and retrieved a couple of doc.u.ments from her case.

”This is a current certified copy of Mr. La.s.siter's appointment as personal representative, and here's a notarized statement authorizes me to receive her financial information.”

Sam accepted the papers, but appeared to give them only a cursory read. ”Much of the information I have, princ.i.p.ally concerning her grandfather's estate, is of public record or could be obtained from the IRS.”

”We both know how long it takes to get anything from the IRS. I'd like to put a figure on the tax liability as soon as possible, as it looks like she hasn't filed for at least three years.”

”I've already made copies of Dee's old returns and the estate's K-1s for the past two years.” Sam pushed a manila folder on the table toward Rae.

She was unable to contain a gasp as she took in the numbers on the K-1s. ”Mrs. La.s.siter's estate is illiquid. Where did all this money go? I mean, granted Mrs. La.s.siter took drugs, but no way could she have spent all that on her habit.”

Sam's expression remained unchanged, unrevealing. ”Ask JJ Camacho.”

”Why aren't the police asking him?”

Sam shrugged. ”I presume that no one has filed a complaint. Shouldn't Danny La.s.siter, as Dee's personal representative, be filing such a complaint? He put up quite a fight for that appointment. It's time he did something to earn it.”

So much for nice old man.

”Inasmuch as Mr. La.s.siter only learned about this person last week, I have to ask what the other family members and their attack-dog lawyers were doing sitting on this knowledge.” Not smart-the simmering anger in her voice. She needed Sam on her side. At least for now.

To her surprise he replied, ”My thought exactly, Mrs. Esposito.”

Then her cell phone rang and she instinctively grabbed it. As she was about to let it go to voicemail, she glanced down and saw Danny's name. ”Excuse me, I need to take this.”

”Rae,” Danny's stressed voice, like a rubber band about to snap, ”my contractor called. He went into the Golden house this morning to start the job--” Background noise m.u.f.fled his next words.

”What? I can't hear you.”

”I'm at the Sheriff's station in Golden. They're talking to him now. I'm next.”

When the phone on the conference table rang, she was relieved at the distraction this afforded. Sam would be too occupied to sift meaning from her end of the conversation with Danny.

”They say I'm not a suspect,” Danny continued.

”Call Sandy.” Whatever it was, it sounded like Danny needed a lawyer more than an accountant.

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