Fatal Connections

Before I finished up with Amy, she named a few more possible contacts, including a Mr. and Ms. Kincaid—James and Marie—a couple with whom the family socialized when they were at home. James and Marie lived down the street from the Harcourts. Amy also had an Aunt Joan on her mother's side, who had moved to New York City after graduating from high school. Her father's parents lived in Boca Raton, and her maternal grandfather had passed away two years ago, but his wife lived in a senior community in Towson. The flowchart would soon overflow at this rate.

In a (lame) attempt to keep the conversation light, I asked Amy about her studies. After telling me what I already knew about her major in English, she said she hoped to go into teaching. The poor kid.

I spent the rest of Sunday online, confirming the addresses for the Kincaids, and the aunt's residence on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Nice digs, I'm sure. As for the grandparents, I opted for running by the Towson facility before making any sojourns to Florida. And, in case the front desk of the senior community gave me any problems, I would bring my clipboard and tell them I came to check out the fire exits or whatever. Or maybe I would sneak in a side door.

The following day, I contacted Ryan Douglas, the Harcourts' business manager. He was also a financial planner who had offices in Bethesda, at a high-dollar address on Wisconsin Avenue. His office suite probably cost the equivalent of a third-world country's economy.

Given the address and the circumstances, I decided to make an appointment to see Douglas rather than try to sweet talk or muscle my way past his secretary. The former was probably beyond my capabilities, while the latter would only lead to more trouble. Fortunately, the secretary was kind enough to squeeze me in right after lunch.

At 1255 hours (or five minutes to one, in civilian), I parked my car in the basement garage of the ten-story building. Before leaving the car, I devoured the remains of a donut I'd picked up on the way, then grinned at myself in the rear-view mirror, scanning for unsightly bits of pastry wedged between my teeth. Having passed inspection, I locked up and headed for a small bank of elevators, one of which took me to the top floor.

The elevator opened directly into the waiting room. I stepped into a sanctum filled with elegant furnishings. Sofas and overstuffed chairs in cozy groupings, each group arranged to create the illusion of intimacy. On one side, a floor-to-ceiling window afforded a panoramic view of commercial Bethesda. Beyond the plethora of living room furniture, there was a massive reception desk. A barely visible sliver of head poking above its surface suggested that there was a person back there.

I walked through the maze of conversation pits toward the desk. The head behind the desk popped up to reveal a young woman with an inquisitive expression.

"I'm Erica Jensen. I have a one o'clock appointment with Mr Douglas."

"Yes, of course." She perked up, her voice was welcoming if automated. "He has a rather full schedule, but he can see you shortly." She made a grand gesture toward the furniture showroom. "Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?"

"Coffee. Black, please." And the faster, the better.

After fifteen minutes, I was still sitting on a divan with cushions smooth as calf skin. I had grown bored after five minutes of reading Douglas's collection of crappy magazines. I stowed my cell phone because, frankly, being online or otherwise fiddling with tech stuff for work wears me out as it is. Say what you will about millennials. Not all of us are internet addicts. Thank you. I focused on my breathing, which was supposed to help calm me. Sometimes it did. Not this time. After another five minutes, I checked again with the receptionist.

"I'm sorry about the wait," she said, treating me to an orthodontist's dream of a smile. "He shouldn't be long."

And I shouldn't be addicted to opioids. But that's the way it is. "Okay," I said, doing my best to keep from snarling.

"More coffee?" she offered. Silly question.

Another twenty minutes crept by. I used the time to mentally run through my various options for next steps on this and other matters, scribbling possibilities into my small notebook. I also berated myself for not at least asking Amy if she had any pull with this guy. If I hadn't been so concerned about Nick, I would have written off the time and beat it out of there.

Miss Perky was almost on the verge of taking her third order for coffee when Douglas finally appeared. His clothes were as color-coordinated as his office furniture. He was a few inches taller than me, and his dark hair, cut short but still slightly wavy, was threaded with iron gray. The price for his dark blue silk suit would likely have paid several months of my rent.

"I'm sorry about the wait, Ms. Jenson." His gave me a brief, but warm handshake. "Got stuck on an endless conference call." He scrunched his nose in a weirdly prissy way. "Do come in." He led the way into a spacious corner office, featuring a blocky, modern-looking desk with a round table surrounded by cushy chairs off to one side. He continued to talk as we moved toward his desk. His voice was soothing, like smooth jazz. "I'm truly sorry about the wait. The whole morning's been nonstop calls and interruptions. Would you like more coffee?" he asked, in his flowing baritone.

"No, thank you." If I drank any more coffee, I would float right out of the office.

He waved his hand toward one of the guest chairs and sat behind his desk. "How can I help you?"

Let's just get to the point. "I assume the police have contacted you about the Harcourts?"

Douglas lowered his head and looked at me under furrowed brows and over steepled fingers. "Yes." He shook his head. "Terrible news."

"They were my clients, as well. Can you think of any reason why this would happen to them?"

Douglas gave me a steely look. "I've already spoken with the police, and I can't think of any good reason for this."

Or you don't want to tell me a thing. Or get involved. Instead of bashing down that barricade, I chose to edge in sideways. "Did you know that the Harcourts were hiring a personal assistant?"

Douglas nodded, but his eyes never left me. "They kept me informed on all financial matters."

Yet another non-answer. I should start a collection. "So you did know they were hiring someone?"

Douglas grunted what might have been assent.

"Is that a yes?" I will get a straight answer out of you, if I have to reach down your throat and yank it out.

He smiled without humor. "Yes, I knew."

I paused to consider my words before committing them to another question. How can I word this in the most persuasive, least obnoxious way?

"It seems they hired lots of help. Did they mention why they needed to hire an assistant?"

Douglas pressed his lips between his teeth and then blew out a breath.

"Look, the police know this, but . . . what's the harm if I tell you?" He stared at a spot on the wall, then shifted his gaze to me. "They didn't use the word 'assistant.' They told me they were hiring a bodyguard."