Swann Dive Page 5

  “Easy boy,” I said with false cheer. “No need to panic.”

  As we neared CeCe’s locker, I heard a noise. Nothing loud, more like a mewing cat. Cato’s ears stood straight up as he dragged me toward it. I had no weapon, not even my purse, but I laced the house keys through my fingers and prepared to defend myself. The tension was unbearable. My heartbeat was so erratic I expected to keel over at any minute. Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary.

  “At last,” Deming grunted. “Glad you finally missed me.” He was draped gracefully over the entrance to CeCe’s locker, nursing a monster bruise. His thick black mane, matted with globs of gore, gave him the look of a punk vampire.

  Blood unnerves me. I fought to remain calm and avoid worsening the situation. Unfortunately, I resorted to the basest of clichés.

  “Deming—you’re hurt.”

  He snapped at me like a sea turtle. “What was your first clue? Don’t I always groom myself with blood?”

  “Let me get help.”

  “No . . . wait a minute. I can walk if you help me. Let go of that mutt. I’ll need your arm around my waist.” He slowly rose, leaning heavily against me. The sensation was less unpleasant than I expected. Deming was a wall of hard, toned muscle, just like in my dream.

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I surprised someone rifling Cecilia’s storage area and got clobbered for my trouble. From behind. Otherwise I’d have been fine.”

  “Man or woman?”

  He grunted and said a particularly vile word. “I couldn’t tell. I heard a noise and woke up on the floor. Probably a man, but who knows these days. Brutalizing men gives women points with the sisterhood, doesn’t it?”

  I didn’t bother correcting him. CeCe was a black belt in several of the martial arts, but I was more cerebral. Verbal combat was my style.

  We limped toward the elevator with Cato trailing behind us. For once, he was too frightened to disobey.

  “Now do you believe me?” I asked. “CeCe was murdered. Why else would someone ransack her things and burglarize her apartment?”

  He winced as I dragged him over some kind of cable. “What’s this about her apartment?”

  “It was unlocked when I got there, and her laptop was gone. Lucky thing we took that other stuff with us. So much for those great Medeco locks.”

  Deming braced himself against the elevator. “Don’t you get it? Someone has a key. You don’t just pick one of those locks. They’re virtually impregnable. I told Cecilia to get a burglar alarm, but she refused. Said the building was secure. Ha!”

  I adjusted my arm, bolstering both Deming and Cato as we entered the lobby.

  Jaime crossed himself when he saw us. A fit of conscience or the prospect of the unemployment line propelled him across the lobby like a rocket.

  “Mr. Swann! You’re bleeding! Can I help you, sir?” Anxiety stripped Jaime of his composure. He flapped his arms, hopping from foot to foot in flat-out panic.

  “Call the paramedics,” I said. “I’ll contact the police.”

  Deming sputtered, “No,” and started coughing. “No paramedics. I’ll call my family physician.” He nodded at Jaime. “If you’ll help me up to Ms. Swann’s flat, I’ll be fine.”

  Three humans and a dog formed a quiet quartet as we bundled Deming into the elevator. Fortunately, this time the Medeco lock was firmly in place. After Jaime left, Deming sprawled out on CeCe’s platinum sofa, holding an ice pack on his head. He closed his eyes as he gingerly dabbed blood with his handkerchief.

  “Who’s your doctor?” I asked. “Head wounds are tricky. You need to have it looked at.”

  He shrugged. “They also bleed like the dickens. It’s no big deal. Spend time around horses, and you get used to bumps and bruises.”

  I’d forgotten. Both CeCe and her brother were world-class equestrians. Deming even aced the Olympic tryouts last year. Horses were part of the Swann DNA. Deming’s father, grandfather, and uncle had been respected polo players. I loved all animals, including horses, but the thought of swinging mallets and hurdling fences gave me a rash.

  “Phone the doctor, or I’ll call your mother.”

  His hazel eyes flashed, raising yet another memory of CeCe. “You always were a nag, Eja. Look on my iPhone. Dr. Harris. Just don’t call my mother. She’s . . . not been well.”

  Hard to believe Anika Swann was anything but perfect. I’d always wondered how one woman—somebody’s mother, for Christ’s sake—could look elegant and self-possessed no matter what the occasion or time of day. Money helped, but she had something more. Chalk it up to those years spent as a runway model, or the three decades in the bosom of the cultural elite. My poor mother with her hair curlers and ruined hose always suffered in comparison.

  “Did you hear me?” Deming sounded querulous, almost menacing. “Don’t involve my parents. They have enough to deal with now.”

  I nodded, slipped into the kitchen, and made the call.

  Five

  TO MY SURPRISE, Dr. Jake Harris arrived in thirty minutes, sporting a medical bag and a warm smile. He was our age, with curly black hair to his collar, smooth brown skin, and a wiry mustache. From their conversation, I could tell that he and Deming knew each other well.

  “Thank God you could get away, Dr. Harris. His head is a mess.”

  Deming glared at me. “Your bedside manner needs work. Florence Nightingale you’re not.”

  Jake Harris gave a good-natured chuckle. “Not to worry. I have what they call a boutique practice, a small number of private patients who keep me on retainer. The Swann family is my favorite.”

  After he’d probed Deming’s scalp and assessed his vital signs, Jake Harris slapped his patient on the back and sighed. “Good thing you’re such a hard head. A mere mortal would have cracked like Humpty Dumpty.”

  “I take it this has happened before,” I said.

  “Ah yes. Dem’s an adrenaline junkie. At Harvard he got smashed on the noggin quite regularly. Tennis and crew, you know.” Jake’s voice turned somber. “Listen, I just heard about Cecilia this morning.” His eyes grew moist, and for a moment I thought he might weep. “I don’t know what to say. It’s unbelievable, tragic. How can I help?”

  Deming pulled himself up on his elbows and grimaced. “Think you could stop by and see my mom? You know her. She’ll never admit to needing anything. I spoke with her this morning, and she seemed normal. Way too normal, considering the situation.”

  “Naturally,” Harris said. “You know, CeCe was on my list for Friday, but she never showed. Some sort of mix-up, I expect.”

  His voice had that kind, compassionate tone that suicides inspire. I couldn’t bear it.

  “She didn’t do it.” I stared down the shock in Dr. Jake’s face. “And we’re going to prove it.”

  “Eja . . . cut it out.” Deming stretched out his arm as if to swat me away. “Don’t mind her, Jake-man. They were best friends.”

  Jake Harris inspected me as if I were a rare virus. “Ah, yes . . . you’re the novelist. Eja Kane. Cecilia spoke often about you. You write mysteries, don’t you?”

  His remark may have been innocent, but it sounded like a challenge.

  “So?”

  “Nothing. Nothing bad, that is. If it makes any difference, I agree with you. From everything I knew about Cecilia, she was the least likely person to take her own life. She never shrunk from a challenge. Took everything full on.”

  I ignored Deming’s glower and gave the good doctor my sweetest smile. “You probably know how frightened she was of heights.”

  Jake wiped his face clean of all expression, giving me that neutral look common to doctors, lawyers, and sociopaths. What in the name of doctor-patient confidentiality had I stumbled into?

  “CeCe would never, ever jump
from that roof,” I said. “Knowing her, she’d deal directly with her issues. After all, she kept a gun in her home and knew how to use it. Why make a spectacle of herself?”

  Deming hauled himself up to his full height, brushing aside a shock of coal-black hair. “Let it go, Eja. This is not the time.”

  Invalid or not, Deming Swann annoyed the hell out of me.

  “Oh, yeah? Then when is the time, Brother Bjorn? When she’s in her grave, and everyone’s swept it under the rug?” I could feel my voice scaling the octaves and going shrill. To my utter humiliation, I burst into tears. Not quiet, ladylike weeping but big, gusty sobs. Both men seemed horrified by the waterworks, but for me it was therapeutic. I would not—could not—allow my friend to be dismissed. If that offended the Swann sense of propriety, so be it. That went double for the hot doc.

  Deming handed me another from his endless supply of linen handkerchiefs. In these days of disposable everything, not many men used them. Despite the source, I applauded the elegant touch.

  Jake gave him a questioning look. “I presume you’ve spoken with the police?”

  “Eja’s right. The cops want this whole nightmare to quietly disappear. The lieutenant, Euphemia Bates, seems pretty sharp though. I think we’ve come to an understanding.”

  “What’s that all about?’ Jake asked, pointing to his injury. “Somehow I can’t believe it’s a coincidence.”

  “Neither can I. Of course, it might be a random burglary. That’s always possible, and her purse was missing.” Deming shot me a conciliatory look. “But I don’t think so. Someone wants something that my sister had, or he thinks she had. I can’t for the life of me think what it might be.”

  I leapt up as my tired synapses suddenly ignited. I’d totally forgotten the three neat piles arrayed on CeCe’s dining table.

  “Check this out,” I said, waving the diamond at them. “Might be worth a little B and E, don’t you think?”

  “What the hell! That can’t be my sister’s. She would have told me.”

  Jake Harris had a tremor in his hand as he reached for the ring. “May I? It’s exquisite. My dad was a diamond merchant, so I’ve seen lots of these.”

  “Probably belongs to a client,” Deming huffed. “That’s why she had it in her safe.”

  “Check out the engraving,” I said. “It’s hers.”

  Jake examined the ring and nodded. “She’s right, Dem. But I don’t understand. Who’s this Raven? Her fiancé?”

  “Raven? What kind of name is that?” Deming tucked in his shirt and straightened his tie. “Cecilia was not engaged. She would have told me. Come on. I’ll freshen up first. Then we’ll visit my parents.”

  THE SWANN FAMILY lived simply—for the monarchs of a small country. When the twins left for college, they’d downsized to a five-floor colonial revival in the heart of Back Bay. The renovation, overseen by Anika, had tastefully preserved the period details, intricate moldings, and soaring ceilings of the home. I’d always loved it.

  We descended on them without calling first. Deming waved away my protests, saying this was no time to stand on ceremony. Jake shrugged, climbed into his Jeep, and followed us to Chestnut Street.

  “Oh, oh.” I pointed to a news van, double-parked in front of the house. Deming aimed his Porsche at it like a death ray, causing the panicked cameraman to flee.

  “Serves them right,” he said. “Bastards. Vultures preying on the bereaved.” He swung the Porsche across the driveway, adjusting his sunglasses against the glare of the light. “Be quick, Eja. Don’t gape at them.” Deming walked briskly up the walkway and used his key. “We’ll wait inside for Jake. Po can take care of him.”

  Po, the Swann’s majordomo, factotum, and family retainer, moved so swiftly I seldom noticed him. He was garbed in black, a tall, slender Chinese man with eyes in the back of his head and the strength of ten. Anyone who bothered the Swanns found that out in a hurry. He had enormous dignity and was respectful but never obsequious to his adopted family. Most called him a treasure, but CeCe considered him a sneak who saw and reported everything to her father.

  Deming nudged me toward the beautifully paneled door to the study. “Dr. Harris is right behind us. Show him in, Po.”

  The study was a triumph of exquisite carving and old-world craftsmanship. CeCe and I used to sneak in there when the coast was clear, gorge on pastries, and solve the problems of the world. Something about the venerable leather sofa and antique Sarouk made this the perfect spot to exchange confidences.

  Not today. Today the beautiful room seemed more like a mausoleum than a place of respite. CeCe’s parents, Anika and Bolin Swann, sat motionless and hollow-eyed around an untouched tea tray. They were a striking couple straight from central casting. She was a natural blonde with perfect skin and an air of elegance that that drew raves from Vogue and W. Bolin Swann was simply the most handsome man I’d ever seen. He was closing in on sixty, but looked forty-five, a toned, sexy forty-five with dark, penetrating eyes and major muscles. Deming inherited his long, lean body, golden skin, and abundant black hair from Dad. His hazel eyes were Mama’s legacy. No telling where his bad manners came from.

  I hung back as Deming embraced his mother and shook his father’s hand. Dr. Jake Harris did the same. Comforting the bereaved is tricky, although I’m sure that somewhere, probably in a YouTube video, there are social conventions that govern it. Rules seemed meaningless to me now, in the face of such enormous grief. I chose emotion over logic and led with my heart. I strode forward and squeezed CeCe’s mother, letting my arms say what my lips could not.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Eja. She’d want that.” Anika was dry-eyed and statue still. She felt brittle, as if the slightest movement would shatter her into bits. Even her impeccable style seemed slightly off-kilter today.

  I didn’t hug Bolin Swann. My unrequited crush on him was a guilty secret I’d guard to the grave. It was all theoretical anyway, probably an unacknowledged Electra complex. He’d never encouraged my fantasies by word, gesture, or action. As far as I knew, the Swanns were devoted to each other.

  “You were a good friend to Cecilia,” Bolin said. “We’ve always thought of you as a member of our family. Another daughter.” He turned to Anika and patted her shoulder. “Go upstairs with Jake, darling. He’ll give you something to help you sleep.”

  She staggered toward the stairway under the watchful eye of her physician. As soon as the door closed, Bolin sharpened his gaze.

  “Okay, tell me what you found.” He spoke in brisk, no-nonsense sentences, demanding truth not platitudes. This was Bolin Swann the financier, whose holdings dwarfed several medium-size nations. He’d apparently channeled his grief into an aggressive business model that worked for him.

  He nodded to Deming. “Tell me about your meeting with the police, son.”

  Deming’s account was masterful, a full but concise summary of our encounter with Euphemia Bates. He left nothing out, including my contributions.

  “Fine,” Bolin said. “Now explain that contusion on your head.”

  Deming hesitated. “It could have been a coincidence . . .”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” Bolin turned to me. “What’s your take on it, Eja?”

  I gulped, wondering how to play Switzerland in a shooting war. “CeCe didn’t kill herself. Someone lured her to that rooftop and murdered her. I’ll go to my own grave knowing that.”

  He set his jaw. “Well said. We need a contingency plan in case the police drag their feet. Swann Industries has an excellent security division. They can help us.”

  “Us? Dad, I think you should stay out of this. Mother needs you. Let the cops do their thing first.”

  “Back off, Deming. This is a joint effort. I owe it to Cecilia and your mother to find the truth. I’ll do that with or without your help.”

  The two
of them, mirror images of each other, locked eyes, negotiating an unspoken truce. Suddenly Bolin rang for Po and ordered champagne. When it arrived, he poured each of us a flute of Krug.

  “First, a toast to my daughter. Brilliant, beautiful, light of my life. Love you forever, CeCe.”

  Tears ran down my cheeks as I thought of the color commentary CeCe would have given. She’d always joked about the men in her family, calling them ninja assassins. Tonight they’d bonded in a blood quest to avenge her. I had joined them in it.

  Jake Harris slipped silently into the room, poured himself a flute, and raised it. “Whatever you’re planning, count me in. I loved her too.”

  After another toast, we got down to business. I’d been to plenty of self-indulgent brainstorming sessions. They’re a staple of academic life and a convenient excuse for inaction. Tonight’s exercise orchestrated by Bolin Swann was different. By the time we left the family manse, we’d devised an action plan with real teeth. Deming and I led the discussion, but Bolin and Jake were with us all the way. We zeroed in on four areas: CeCe’s presence at the mystery building; the promised federal judgeship; and her personal and professional life.

  While the police waited for a warrant, Swann Securities would do a computer run of every resident in the high-rise building and cross-reference for any connection with CeCe. If one surfaced, Bolin would follow up.

  Jake got the medical tasks. He’d schmooze with the medical examiner, analyze the autopsy findings, and scour CeCe’s charts for any irregularities. They sugarcoated the big s word. No one said it, even though it hovered over us like an unacknowledged guest.

  “Why bother?” I asked. “She wasn’t depressed. Believe me. She was euphoric. Her career was soaring.”

  Deming turned away before I caught his expression. “Sometimes that’s not enough, Eja. Look at it the way Euphemia Bates will see it: My sister was almost thirty-four, she had no husband or children, and that biological clock was ticking away. Maybe she wanted more. All her life she’d gotten everything she wanted.”