Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 33

"So, your wife won't take over?" I asked.

"My wife will benefit from a trust fund I've established that will protect my assets from estate taxes. I'm sure, as an attorney, you're familiar with such things."

I was, indeed, familiar with such things. I just didn't do that kind of work. I found it intensely boring, for one thing. For another, I had no clients with the kind of moolah Bower had in abundance.

"Yes, I am," I said. I kept my response short, the way they teach you in law school.

"My wife is anything but a business woman. My daughter, on the other hand—"

He stopped short as the door swung open. A brassy blonde pushing her mid forties sashayed in. Her tight purple Capri pants hugged ample hips; a red, purple, and yellow Hawaiian shirt completed the ensemble. With every step, a festive orange drink in her hand sloshed over the rim of its glass, leaving a dark trail on the Persian carpet. Circling the desk, she draped herself over Bower's shoulders.

"Whatcha doing in here, baby?" She slurred. "We gotta party going on."

"Ms. McRae," Bower said. "This is my wife, Georgia Lee."

I rose and extended my hand. "How do you do?"

"Oh, sweetie, I'm doing great. Can'tcha tell?" She managed to push herself upright, wiped a hand on her shirt and thrust it my way. We shook hands. Hers was sticky.

I resumed my seat, wiping my hand discreetly on the seat back as I did so.

"Okay, so your daughter—"

Bower cut me off with a raised hand—and eyebrows. He turned to his wife, putting a hand on each of her cheeks.

"Honey, we're talking business, okay? I'll be down in just a bit."

Then he made smootchie noises, like you would to a baby. My gag reflex flared up again.

Georgia Lee looked like she'd just lost her best friend. "Okay, Daddy. But, hurry up. I'm lonely. And you know how I get when I'm lonely."

In a multicolored blur, she left. No one spoke. Silence pressed in on my ears.

Bower looked paralyzed, then let out a breath. "Yeah."

"So, your daughter would own the business?" I said.

"Yes, yes. Can we make this quick?" Bower was fidgeting, lines creasing his brow. Due to Georgia Lee's randiness? Was that how they met?

"I understand Marsha's gone. Do you still intend to leave her the business?"

"Frankly, I'm ... at a loss. She's my only other heir. I want to keep the business in the family. Junior, well ... you've seen for yourself. Marsha's got the smarts. I tried to be a mentor to her. I tried to help her get into the right university. I tried to get her onto the right career path. But ever since her mother died, she wouldn't listen to me. She's hated me ever since."

"Do you have any idea where she is?"

Bower shook his head, eyes glistening.

"Marsha's an idiot," Lisa said. "She could have it all." She waved a hand around the room. "But she took her trust fund money and split."

"You wouldn't know where she is, would you?"

"No, and I couldn't care less."

I nodded and stood. I handed each of them a card, including Junior.

I leaned over the slumped figure in the chair, tossed him the card and murmured, "How about it, Junior. Any idea where your sister went?"

For a moment, his eyes flickered with an unidentifiable emotion. But he said nothing.

I rose, turned, and addressed the room. "I think I've heard enough for now."

* * *

I left the three of them, closing the door and fleeing down the hall. You'd have thought I was being pursued by monsters or evil spirits. In a sense, I believed this to be true. I hit the zig-zag stairway, bounding downward two steps at a time. Evil pervaded these people, I could feel it emanating from Lisa's cold smile. From her calculating eyes. I could feel it in Bower's lack of empathy for his own son. In his lack of willingness to listen to what his own daughter wanted. In his need to shape everyone and everything into what he wanted them to be.

Junior, meanwhile ... Jesus! Talk about a pawn. Sure, he was a nitwit. Even so, the price he'd paid for twenty minutes of pleasure—oh, let's get real, probably five, if he was lucky—was his life. As I made my way to the door, my disgust grew. Bile rose in my throat. Years of working with the Public Defender's Office had never made me feel this wretched. At least, the criminals there didn't hide behind phony respectability.

Before I left, I spotted an umbrella stand beside the door. I took a moment to clear my throat of the bilious phlegm, gathered it in my mouth and hocked a loogie into the stand before I walked out.