The woman did not reply. Instead, she looked at him as if she knew quite well that any further discussion would be held in the lobby between Frank and the building’s largest security officer.
“As I mentioned,” she said in a cool, measured tone, “Mr. Cummings does not see anyone without an appointment.”
Frank took out his badge and waved it in front of her face.
The woman leaned forward and looked at it closely, checking to see if it were authentic, or just some tin star he’d bought at a novelty store.
“You’re with the Atlanta police?” she asked finally.
Frank nodded. “Badge number one one four seven, if you want to take it down.”
The woman sat back stiffly. “That won’t be necessary.” She paused a moment, her eyes checking him out once again. “May I know what this is about?”
“No,” Frank said, “I think that Mr. Cummings would want that to remain confidential.”
“Very well,” the woman said. “Please be seated. I’ll see what I can do for you.” She stood up quickly, then walked back into one of the suites of offices at the rear.
Frank turned slowly and strolled around the room. The paintings drew his attention and he walked from one to another, carefully looking at each in turn. They were all of places in what Frank took to be Paris, street scenes of cafés and expansive boulevards, huge arches and sweeping parks. The colors were bright, even garish, and he didn’t like them very much. There was too much peace and gaiety pushing out the facts of life as he saw them, and for a moment he tried to imagine why anyone would hang only such pictures. He wondered if Cummings himself had selected them, and if so, why? To relieve the gray monotony of corporate law, perhaps, or to present a view of life which seemed possible for him once he’d won enough cases, garnered enough fees and could then sit back and sip a glass of wine in a street cafe exactly as thousands of far less wealthy and distinguished people did quite absently and without a thought every single day.
He was still brooding over the general tone of the paintings when the receptionist returned.
“Mr. Clemons,” she said, “Mr. Cummings will see you now.”
“Thank you.”
“Just follow me, please,” the woman said. Then she turned briskly and led Frank down a long, very wide corridor which finally spread out into yet another large reception area. There was another woman behind another wooden desk. She was young and very elegantly dressed, and she flashed Frank a pleasant smile which he instantly distrusted.
“I’m Mr. Cummings’ executive secretary,” she said. She glanced coolly at the other woman. “That’ll be all, Amy.”
Her eyes shifted back to Frank. “I understand you’re with the police.”
“That’s right.”
“And this is some sort of official visit?”
“Yes.”
“Are you interested in engaging the firm in some way?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you seeking legal counsel? For yourself, I mean?”
“No,” Frank said.
The woman jotted down a note, and Frank wondered just how many layers of the servant class he was going to have to penetrate before he reached Arthur Cummings.
“I don’t have all day,” he said finally.
The woman looked up. She looked as if he had spit in her face. “What’s that?”
“I want to see Arthur Cummings,” Frank said bluntly. “And I don’t have all day.”
“Well, Mr. Cummings usually sees people only by appointment.”
“This is a murder investigation,” Frank said.
The woman’s eyes widened.
“Now why don’t you press that little button on your phone there, or whatever it is you press, and tell Mr. Cummings that I’m coming in.”
The buzzer was still sounding in Cummings’ office as Frank came through the double mahogany doors.
Arthur Cummings looked as if his fortress had been breached by a barbarian army. He stood up slowly, glaring into Frank’s eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue suit that looked as if it had never been worn for more than forty minutes. He was tall, slender, with a head of blindingly white hair.
Frank displayed his badge. “I don’t mean to be difficult, Mr. Cummings,” he said quietly, “but I have a lot to do, and seeing you is first on my list.”
A slight smile swept over Cummings’ face. “I see,” he said. “Well, why don’t you sit down?”
Frank sat down in one of the chairs opposite Cummings’ desk.
Cummings continued to stand behind his desk, his back to an enormous window. The light that came through it turned his hair to silver.
“I must tell you, Mr. Clemons, that I’m a bit at sea as to what all this is about.”
“It’s about Angelica Devereaux.”
Cummings’ eyes darkened, and he lowered himself into his chair. For a moment he simply stared at Frank, then he leaned forward and snapped up his phone. “No calls,” he said. He placed the phone back in its cradle. “Now, what do you mean?”
“She’s dead,” Frank said. “We found her body in a vacant lot off Glenwood.”
“Off Glenwood?” Mr. Cummings asked, as if the location of her body was a good deal more incomprehensible than her death.
“We don’t know exactly how she died,” Frank said, “but we know that she couldn’t have gotten to that lot by herself.”
Cummings looked puzzled. “You mean you don’t know if she was murdered?”
“We don’t know what happened,” Frank repeated, “but we do know that at least one other person had to have been involved.” He stopped, trying to gauge how much information he should hold back. “Her death involved injection, and there were no hypodermic needles near her body.”
“So others must have been involved.”
“At least one.”
Mr. Cummings nodded. “How terrible,” he said. He seemed genuinely saddened. He folded his hands quietly over his desk and gazed at them. “She’d just begun to live.” He looked up at Frank. “So young.”
“Yes,” Frank said.
Mr. Cummings shook his head mournfully. “So very, very young.”
Frank took out his pen and notebook. “You were her guardian, I believe.”
“Who have you been speaking to?”
“Karen Devereaux.”
“Yes, well, guardian is a legal description in this case,” Cummings said. “It is a technical term.”
“What do you mean?”
“I administered her trust fund,” Cummings said, “but that’s about all.”
“Do you still administer it?”
“No. Angelica turned eighteen a few months ago. She’s her own guardian now.”
“How much money was involved?” Frank asked.
“Almost three million dollars in assets,” Cummings told him. He smiled sadly. “More than a young girl should have control of.”
“Was that cash?”
Cummings looked at Frank as if he were a small child. “Of course not. There were stocks, bonds, that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Of course, these things are easily convertible into cash. And, along with them, there was a sizable amount of what you might call ‘ready cash.’ That is to say, purely liquid assets.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
Frank wrote it down. “What did she do with that money?”
“I have no idea.”
Frank looked at him doubtfully.
“It’s quite true,” Cummings said. “I have absolutely no idea. That’s what I meant by calling my guardianship purely technical.”
“Purely technical?”
“It means that I was her financial caretaker,” Cummings explained. “But as far as a personal relationship with Angelica went, I had none whatsoever. So, when she became eighteen and took charge of her own finances, we ceased to have any relationship at all.”
“She took full charge?”