The Fitzgerald Ruse (4 page)

“And you never opened it?” I asked.

“Mr. Blackman, no woman wants a rejected gift. But like you said, we’ll talk about it later.”

“Yes, Mrs. Barkley.” I thought I’d been dismissed.

“You’ll want the password,” she said.

“Sorry. What is it?”

Her smile returned. “
The Great Gatsby.”

Chapter Five

In the blocks encompassing the heart of Asheville, traffic could be as congested as any city in the nation. Even though we were between tourist seasons—after Labor Day and before the invasion of the “leaf-peepers” for the October foliage—there were no parking places to be found on either Haywood Street or Patton Avenue near the bank. I found a spot in the deck behind the Pack Library and started the short walk to Wachovia. I’d take the chance that Ethel Barkley’s lockbox wouldn’t be too heavy to carry back.

The late afternoon temperature hovered in the low seventies. Shadows came early as the western ridges of the Blue Ridge Mountains rose to meet the setting sun. A cool breeze dispersed the fumes of the crawling vehicles and created the illusion that human technology couldn’t harm Mother Nature.

Asheville was a growing city of 70,000-plus, attracting out-of-state retirees who wanted mountain homes and a migration of NewAgers who claimed to be drawn to an ancient Appalachian vortex humming beneath Asheville like a giant crystal on steroids, a convergence of mystical forces and dimensions that eluded scientists and the rational world. Ethel Barkley and her palmistry qualified as a senior NewAger, a homegrown original hybrid of both camps.

Between the two extremes lay the locals, the mountaineers whose ancestors had settled the hills centuries before and who now found their land values and taxes soaring. Some of the young people who had moved away could no longer afford to return. When Thomas Wolfe wrote
You Can’t Go Home Again
, he didn’t mean because you couldn’t buy a house.

Thomas Wolfe. His legacy had played a part in the murder of Nakayla’s sister, and Ethel Barkley must have thought I specialized in literary celebrities. What had she done to F. Scott Fitzgerald that caused her to feel such guilt? Perhaps there was something in her safe-deposit box she didn’t want revealed at her death. Something she feared her family would discover. If my mission were to destroy evidence of a crime, could I safely do that even if the crime dated beyond the limits of prosecution? Or could I be liable for prosecution myself and risk the loss of my license? Sam Blackman, the record-holder for the shortest career as a private detective in the history of North Carolina.

I realized my musings had taken me several blocks without once thinking about my leg. The V.A. doctor had told me the unnaturalness of the prosthesis would fade as my body reprogrammed nerves and muscles, but this was the first time I’d gone so far without being aware of balance and stride, aspects of my walking that usually required conscious effort to perform.

I noticed the other pedestrians around me. None of them paid any attention to my wobbly gait. I was glad to be just another guy on the sidewalk with a folded shopping bag tucked under my arm, a forgettable figure who looked as normal as the pleasant September Tuesday.

“They know where you are.” Calvin Stuart’s words rang in my head. Ethel Barkley had driven my Army buddy’s warning from my mind. Maybe I wasn’t forgettable to someone, and, despite my assurances to Nakayla, the unease created by Calvin’s call returned. My senses sharpened and I looked over my shoulder. My ability to walk might be improving, but how fast could I run?

The bank lobby had a customer service desk separate from the tellers’ counter. A young man of Asian descent wearing a badge with the un-Asian name of Hubert looked up from his computer terminal and smiled. “Welcome to Wachovia,” he said with such sincerity I almost believed him. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the manager.”

“Is Mr. Tennant expecting you?”

“Yes. I’m representing one of your customers. She should have phoned ahead.”

Hubert picked up the phone next to his keyboard. “And you are?”

“Sam Blackman.”

He gave me a second look. Either the manager had alerted him or he recognized my name from the summer’s news coverage. He pushed an intercom button, paused a second, and then said, “Mr. Blackman is here.”

Before he could return the receiver to its cradle, an office door opened along the sidewall and a beefy man in a short-sleeved dress shirt and blue paisley tie strode toward us.

He was still twenty feet away when he called, “Mr. Blackman. So good to meet you.” He extended his right arm in more of a docking maneuver than a handshake. I stepped forward to meet him lest his momentum knock me over. He squeezed my hand with such enthusiasm that I was afraid any future reading of my palm would be more like deciphering a crumpled newspaper. The man was probably in his late forties and might have been a football player in his earlier years. Now his muscular block of a body was in danger of going to fat.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Tennant.”

“Call me Ross,” he insisted. “And it’s no trouble at all. Let me say how glad we are that you’re with Wachovia.”

The light bulb went off in my head. Ross must have done a quick check on me. I’d deposited the bulk of my parents’ wrongful death settlement in a money-market account in the Wachovia branch in Biltmore Village. About half a million had been wired to an offshore account in the Caymans where Nakayla and I could begin the careful process of converting her assets into cash, but that still left over two million dollars yet to be more traditionally invested. To Ross Tennant, I wasn’t Sam Blackman the detective; I was Sam Blackman the millionaire.

“And I’m very pleased you’re helping dear Mrs. Barkley,” Ross continued. “What a sweetheart.”

“You’ve been out to see her?”

He shook his head. “No. She came in to meet me. Must be nearly ten years ago when I first became manager.” He glanced down at his hands and I suspected Ethel had given him a most memorable interview.

“Did Mrs. Barkley tell you what I needed?”

Ross glanced around the lobby. “Let’s step into my office.”

The furnishings were nice but not lavish. He pointed to one of four chairs at a small conference table in a corner opposite his desk and then he closed the door behind him. “Mrs. Barkley said you’d be bringing the key to her safe-deposit box.” He wedged into the chair across from me. “Do you have it?”

I pulled the key from my coat pocket and laid it on the table.

Ross eyed it appreciatively. “And there’s something else.”

“Not that I know of.” I waited for the frown to appear on his ruddy face. “But
The Great Gatsby
sends his regards.”

“Excellent.” He clapped his hands. “She’s quite the character, isn’t she?”

“One of a kind.” I thought for all he knew, Ethel Barkley could have been my grandmother.

“I’m glad she’s seeking your advice, Mr. Blackman.”

“Please call me Sam.”

“Sam.” He leaned against the table and lowered his voice. “I’ve tried to get her to be a little more aggressive with her funds. Not that she should be in anything risky at her age, but rolling CDs every ninety days isn’t earning the interest she should.” He laughed. “I’m not saying she’s not a profitable client for the bank, but I’m looking out for her best interests.” He paused. “Just like we would be looking out for yours.”

I wasn’t certain if his point was about Ethel or a sales pitch for my investment account. “I’m sure Mrs. Barkley has confidence in you, but she has her own reason for doing things her way.” I figured that comment was accurate although the reason could be a sign in her tea leaves or a wayward line in Ross Tennant’s palm.

“Exactly.” His gaze returned to the key. “I just wanted to assure you if there’s anything in her safe-deposit box, stocks, bonds, or other securities, that she wants converted, I’d be happy to set up a consultation with an advisor from our Private Wealth Management Group.”

“I’ll mention that to her.”

He looked up, all smiles. “And remind her she’s close to the breakpoint where management fees are further reduced and interest rates increased.”

“Right. What’s that amount again?”

Ross hesitated, weighing whether he was revealing too much of Ethel Barkley’s personal finances. He must have decided if the breakpoint was already public information, then he wasn’t violating her confidentiality. “Five million.”

Ethel Barkley would have no problem paying my fee. I picked up the key. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Ross Tennant got to his feet. “I’ll escort you to the vault. You’ll need to sign in and out, and since you’re not the designated holder of the box, I’ll counter-sign the log with you.”

I stood. “Mrs. Barkley said only I was to have access.”

He raised his big hands apologetically. “Of course. You’ll enter on your own. There is a counter with individual dividers. You can examine the contents in complete privacy.”

He led the way to the rear of the bank, slid back a wall of shiny metal bars, and crossed into the vault area. A podium held an open logbook just inside the door. A security guard sat at a desk beside it.

“Mr. Blackman will be bringing out some items, Ralph.”

The guard looked at me. He wasn’t part of Nathan Armitage’s company. “Do you need to borrow a bank bag, sir?”

I shook out the shopping bag. “I think everything will fit in here.”

The guard whistled. “I’ll be. Ivey’s. I haven’t seen one of those in years. I used to have night duty there before the store closed.”

“They were bought out, weren’t they, Ralph? Must be close to twenty years ago.”

“Yep. If a day.”

Great. So much for not drawing attention to myself.

“Well, give Mr. Blackman what he needs.” Ross signed the book and handed me the pen. As I wrote my name, he said, “The safe-deposit boxes are in the first room on the right. Let Ralph know when you’re finished and I’ll come back.” He left, and I sensed his disappointment that I hadn’t asked him to accompany me.

The safe-deposit box matching the tag on the key was on the lowest level and appeared to be one of the largest available. The front must have been at least a foot square. I feared the trek back to the car might be more than I’d bargained for.

The lock turned with a slight squeak and metal scraped metal as I pulled out the drawer. A box fit snugly inside, but I knew this couldn’t be what Ethel wanted me to bring her. This box was the property of the bank. I lifted it free. The weight must have been around fifteen pounds. It closed with a latch, not a lock. I carried it to a counter on the opposite wall and set it down between two privacy screens. If Ethel didn’t remember that the box belonged to Wachovia, then I might have to empty the contents into the shopping bag.

I flipped up the clasp and raised the hinged lid. Like one of those wooden Russian dolls, another box lay inside. The metal had long ago lost any sheen and the dimpled surface of its top showed other objects had at one time banged against it. There was just enough room to wedge my fingers along the sides and pull it free. I set it directly in front of me.

The dimensions were roughly eighteen inches in length, ten inches in height, and ten inches in width. Just below the lip of the lid, a release button with a slot for a key provided a modest hindrance to anyone attempting to pry the top open. To the right of the lock, I saw an irregular bulge that started on the lid and continued over the side. This wasn’t a protrusion of the metal, but some other material adhering to it. I turned the box on its side. Clunks sounded as the internal contents shifted.

Someone had poured molten lead over the seam of the lid. The dull gray blemish was about the size of an egg yolk and its unbroken surface showed no one had opened the box since the hot lead had cooled. Like wax dripped over the closed flap of an envelope, the soft lead had been pressed with a recessed seal. In the bright fluorescent light of the bank vault, the raised design stood out with toxic clarity. The marking was simple and chilling.

A swastika.

“Please don’t hesitate to call on me if I can ever be of assistance.” Ross Tennant made the offer as he held open the front door of the bank.

“Thank you.” I could only nod my appreciation since both my hands clutched the bag with the Ivey’s logo to my chest. I didn’t trust the twine handles.

I got tired during the walk to the car. The weight of the box seemed to increase with each step. Pain in my stump began to grow as perspiration soaked the sleeve and changed the fit of my limb in the prosthesis’ socket. I’d stop by the office where I kept a spare sleeve. Maybe I could find a packing carton big enough for the lockbox so Mrs. Barkley’s neighbors wouldn’t think Ivey’s was back in business.

I set the shopping bag on the floor in the hall, logo facing the door, and knocked. No answer. Nakayla either hadn’t returned from Office Depot or she’d gone for the day. I glanced at my watch. Five-fifteen.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Blackman.”

I jumped. Amanda Whitfield stood behind me. Her soft rubber soles hadn’t made a sound.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She looked down at the bag. The end of the lockbox was clearly visible. “Can I help you with that? It looks heavy.”

“No thanks. Just getting my key and then I’ll slide it inside.” I turned to the door, not wanting to get into a conversation.

“Have a nice evening. Remember I lock the doors at seven.” She continued down the hall.

I felt guilty that I’d been so abrupt. “Amanda,” I called.