They hadn’t spoken in eight months.
Finally Whittaker had worked up courage. And, just the other day, sent the email.
Kitt, please hear me out...
And, shamefully, he had included the line,
I’m sorry to say the doctor isn’t hopeful.
Playing that card was a sign of his desperation.
Son, you’re largely the reason I’m dissolving the company. I realize I wasn’t the father I should have been. The husband or brother too. I was cruel to employees, I was cruel to the subjects we wrote about. I was cruel to my family, to you especially. Your absence finally let me see. Please, let’s sit down...
Where are you?
His mobile vibrated. Since he’d gotten sick — well, since the sickness decided to stop being coy and chose to blossom — he’d developed a sensitivity to loud and jarring sounds.
He glanced at the caller ID.
“Jo.”
His niece’s low, even voice said, “That policewoman’s here. The one Spencer called about.”
“All right. I’m coming out.”
A sigh. The police... About that man terrorizing people, leaving Daily Heralds...
The crows were coming home to roost. In droves.
No, the vultures...
Gripping the cane, he moved slowly across the rich Persian carpet, predominantly blue, a shade that reminded him of Mary’s eyes.
34
A wide door of rich mahogany opened slowly and a man stepped out of what seemed to be a home office.
He was using a brass-headed black cane for support. He was not old. Amelia Sachs guessed he was late sixties, maybe early seventies. He’d been a handsome man at one point but was now sunken and fragile. The skin was loose and gray. Cancer not cardio, she guessed. He was attentive to personal details, though. His hair was perfectly coiffed and he was smoothly shaven. She smelled floral cologne. His dark suit and white shirt were not baggy. Photos on the mantel and walls told her he’d lost much weight lately, which meant that the garments were recently tailored or purchased, despite his numbered days. We fight disease on many fronts.
Averell Whittaker nodded an affectionate greeting to the couple Sachs had just met: Joanna Whittaker, the man’s niece, and her fiancé, Martin Kemp. A nod to Lyle Spencer too.
One other person as welclass="underline" Alicia Roberts was the armed guard assigned for Whittaker’s personal protection. The solidly built blond woman, with hair in a tight bun, wore a dark suit. She seemed to be ex-military.
Sachs identified herself and shook Whittaker’s dry, firm hand. He sat, adjusted his paisley pocket square and then gestured everyone to sit. Sachs eased into the cream-colored leather chair. She and Rhyme had pursued a perpetrator to Italy not long ago and she’d had a chance to sit on some very upscale furniture. This chair would have stood up quite nicely to any of those.
When Lyle Spencer sat, the chair creaked.
The apartment was in the residential portion of Whittaker Tower. The building was commercial to the top ten floors — the Whittaker Media Group newspaper, TV and radio operations — and above that private residences. The massive living room was decorated with subdued elegance. She saw a Picasso on one wall. The artist who did that pointillism thing — Sachs could never remember — was responsible for another. From the north-facing floor-to-ceiling windows you could see the Bronx and — given the lofty height of sixty-four stories — maybe an outer ring of Westchester.
Her entire town house in Brooklyn could have been tucked tidily into this room.
Whittaker began, “This person calling himself the Locksmith, leaving the newspapers, he hasn’t hurt anyone?”
“Not in the two cases over the past couple of days. He breaks in, rearranges things and lets her know that he’s been there.”
“Lord,” Joanna said.
“We did find a small amount of blood, but no other direct evidence of violence.”
Sachs took a notepad from her inner pocket and clicked a pen to ready. She held up her Sony and, when there were nods all around, pressed Record. “The two victims say they don’t have any connection to anyone at your paper or TV channel. They don’t know why he’s leaving the newspapers.” She gave the names and asked, “Do they mean anything to you?”
The family members regarded one another. “No,” Whittaker said, and Joanna shook her head. Martin Kemp did as well.
Sachs asked about the progress of the legal department in pulling together the list of threatening letters and complaints the media company had received.
Whittaker replied, “Doug said it should be ready in an hour or so.” He sighed. “It will be a big file. We’ve tread on many toes for many years. And then the equal opportunity issues. Whittaker Media has not had the most diverse and felicitous workplace environment.”
Joanna said, “Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with us. Like that man who shot Reagan. Hinckley? He was inspired by The Catcher in the Rye. But there was nothing in the book that called for violence.” The woman had long brunette hair, tied back severely into a ponytail. The strands were thin and the tail swayed when she looked over the visitors, which she did in a staccato way. Her gray eyes, beneath close-knit brows, were keen and her mien stern. Her dark navy suit was cut like a man’s. The face was square and she had a prominent nose. Sachs liked that she wore her features proudly and hadn’t given in to pressure from anyone, society included, to change her contours.
Sachs said, “Possibly.” She explained her thinking that the Locksmith might be using the Herald as a token — to protest media’s intrusion into people’s lives.
“Ah,” Whittaker said sadly, “he’s breaking in — just the way we do.”
Sachs shrugged. “Just a thought I had. Also, he could be planting the papers as a complete misdirection.”
“How’s that?” Martin Kemp asked. He had a voice that could earn him a slot as an FM radio host.
“He could be up to something else entirely, not involving you, and he’s focusing attention on the newspaper.”
“What would the something else be?” Whittaker asked.
“We don’t have any theories yet. We also know that you’re selling the company. Is it possible that a potential buyer hired the Locksmith to put you in a bad light, reduce the value?”
He gave a laugh, which to Sachs seemed almost sorrowful. “Buyers... Well, it might be helpful, Detective, if you knew a bit about Whittaker Media. I have to confess that the brand of journalism we offer isn’t quite up to the New York Times standard.”
“Averell,” Joanna said kindly and touched his knee.
“No, she should know.” The man shrugged, which resulted in a minor wince. He continued, “Charlotte Miller. There’s one example. Of many.”
The name was familiar, Sachs said, but she couldn’t place it.
“It was about a year ago. Aide to a U.S. congressman from Alabama. Marvin Doyle.”
That too echoed. She said nothing and let Whittaker continue. “One of those terrible things. He assaulted her. Drugs in her drink, something like that. The police investigated but there wasn’t enough evidence to go forward with a prosecution. Charlotte didn’t give up, though. She wanted to tell her story and expose him. I bought it and paid her for exclusivity. Put a top writer on it. We promised it was going to be serialized. But it never ran.”
“Why not?”
“Because I killed it. Do you know buy and bury?”
“No.”
“It’s when a newspaper or TV station buys the rights to a story with no intention of running it. Basically they lock up the story and the subject forever. You can’t sell it anywhere. That’s what we did with Charlotte.”