Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Eleven

Horace Blair had a full head of snowy-white hair, weighed only seven pounds more than he’d weighed in college, and looked ten years younger than seventy-four, thanks to upgrades to his facial features by the finest plastic surgeons.

Blair’s massive home, modeled after the mansion of a British earl, was the centerpiece of a magnificent estate whose rolling lawns and well-tended woods were enclosed behind a high stone wall. The mansion’s wide terraces overlooked an Olympic-size swimming pool, tennis courts, and a man-made lake.

When he was home, Horace woke up at five every morning except Sunday and swam a mile in the indoor lap pool. After finishing his swim, he would shower, slip on a terry-cloth robe, then seat himself in a glassed-in kitchen nook. The nook looked out on a splendid garden that was pleasing to the eye even in foul weather, thanks to the efforts of an army of gardeners.

Each morning, Blair’s personal chef would set the table in the nook with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, half a grapefruit, a freshly baked croissant, and a cup of coffee brewed from a blend that was specially prepared for the master of the house. Stacked beside the food would be several newspapers including the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Post, and the New York Times. After breakfast, Horace would drive his Bentley to the Blair Building, where he would oversee his international business empire. Blair employed a chauffeur but enjoyed driving too much to use his services unless he needed to work on the way to the office.

Horace’s morning routine usually soothed him, but Wednesday morning it had done nothing to alleviate the tension that had robbed him of a good night’s sleep. On Thursday his prenuptial agreement with his wife would terminate and he would have to pay her twenty million dollars. Blair could afford the money. He made that much in interest every week. What galled him was not getting his money’s worth from his loveless marriage.

In business, Horace Blair never acted rashly, but his personal life had been one series of blunders after another, and his marriage to Carrie Trask may have been his most foolish and impulsive mistake.

Ten years ago, Horace entertained a group of Japanese businessmen at his country club. Despite being tipsy, he had driven home in one of his prized possessions, a bright-yellow Diablo 6.0 Lamborghini with a top speed of 200 miles an hour. The alcohol he had imbibed had affected his judgment and he was cruising along at 120 miles an hour when a policeman pulled him over and cited him for driving under the influence and reckless driving.

Horace Blair never caved without a fight, and he’d hired Bobby Schatz, Washington, D.C.’s top criminal defense attorney, to represent him. When Horace Blair walked into Judge Hugo Diaz’s courtroom in Lee County, Virginia, he had been prepared to do anything, including lie, to win his case. When he left the courtroom he was floating on air, and it wasn’t because Judge Diaz had been so impressed by his honesty that he had imposed the least serious sentence possible after Horace changed his plea to guilty in the middle of the prosecutor’s cross-examination.

Horace had shed his third wife eight months before in a bloodless coup. He’d grown tired of her and he wasn’t sorry to see her go, but even though he was sixty-three, he was still vigorous and in need of female companionship. Carrie Trask, the prosecuting attorney, was a goddess. She had sleek blond hair, translucent gray-green eyes, high, sculpted cheekbones, and a smile that could light up a city. Once he saw her, Horace Blair knew he had to possess her, and what better way to make an impression than to help her win her case?

Blair was unconcerned about the consequences of a conviction. His lawyer had explained that there would be no jail time for a first offense, any fine would be a fly speck on his bank balance, and he had a chauffeur who would drive for him if the state took his license. Yes, there would be a conviction on his record, but that was a small sacrifice to make for love.

Taking the stand had given Blair a chance to talk to Carrie, though he had to admit that that was the weirdest first date he’d ever been on. Still, he’d seen the confusion on Carrie’s face when he’d opened his heart to her and told her that her opening statement had made him realize how dangerous his actions had been. Then he had looked deep into Carrie’s eyes and told her that he would not play games and was ready to pay the price for his actions. Carrie had not been able to hide her surprise at this unexpected turn of events, and Blair had been thrilled by what he perceived to be a successful first step in his campaign to win the prosecutor’s heart.

Blair had waited to ask Carrie out until after he fulfilled the conditions of his probation and paid his fine. He wanted Carrie to see he was serious about being a good citizen and a good person. Carrie had turned him down the first time he had asked her to dinner, but he pursued the young prosecutor with a vengeance and finally wore her down. It proved a Pyrrhic victory.

Everyone but Horace knew that he had been foolish to marry Carrie. The age difference was too great; and it was obvious that Carrie didn’t love him, and equally obvious that she was wedded to her career more than she was to him.

Horace had been married several times before. Those wives had been members of his country club set. They cooked for him, they went to social functions with him, and they kept his bed warm when he wanted sex. None of them worked. None of them wanted to work. Horace wanted a wife who would be there for him when he needed her. He realized his mistake in marrying Carrie when it dawned on him that she was rarely going to be where he wanted her to be if she was involved in a case. And she was always involved in a case.

It wasn’t as if Horace hadn’t been warned. Carrie had told him what was in store for him on the evening he proposed. But Horace was besotted, and he’d convinced himself that he could bring Carrie around. He had tried to convince Carrie to leave the commonwealth attorney’s office. He had explained that there was no reason for her to put in long hours at a government job when he was so wealthy that she could do anything else she wanted to do. But prosecuting criminals was the only thing Carrie wanted to do.

On Wednesday morning, Blair sipped his juice and tried to enjoy the view, but he could not relax because thoughts of the prenup kept intruding. It had been Jack Pratt’s idea. At first, Horace had rejected his corporate lawyer’s suggestion, but he caved when Pratt reminded him that his first wife had taken him to the cleaners because he did not have a prenuptial agreement and that his prenups with numbers two and three had saved him.

If Horace thought that Carrie would sign the prenup without a fight she quickly disabused him of this idea. Carrie was not like his other wives. She had graduated near the top of her class at Georgetown’s law school and was just as smart as Pratt. She had agreed to sign the prenup only if it included a guarantee that she would receive twenty million dollars at the end of the first ten years of their marriage if she did not divorce Horace or sleep with another man. Horace had agreed but had added the condition that she would lose everything if she revealed the details of the agreement.

Horace was trying to distract himself from thinking about the prenup by reading a business article when his houseman interrupted him.

“There’s a detective at the front door who wishes to speak to you.”

Blair frowned. “What does he want?”

“It’s a woman, a Detective Stephanie Robb. She says it’s about Mrs. Blair.”

“What about Carrie?”

“She wouldn’t tell me.”

“Very well. Show her in.”

Everything about Stephanie Robb was square and thick. Her short-cut dirty-blond hair framed her face in a cube shape. Her body had no waist and was short, muscular, and squat like a power lifter’s. The butt of the detective’s gun peeked out of the brown jacket she wore over a white blouse. A brown skirt and comfortable brown shoes completed the ensemble.

“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Blair,” Robb said as she held out her ID so Blair could inspect it.

“My houseman said this concerns my wife.”

“Yes, sir,” Robb said.

“What about Carrie?”

“We want to know where she is,” Robb said.

“I don’t understand.”

“No one has seen Mrs. Blair since Monday afternoon.”

“She hasn’t been at work?”

“No, sir.”

Blair’s brow furrowed. “That’s strange. If there’s one thing I know about my wife, it’s that she’s completely dedicated to her job.”

“That’s why we’re worried. She’s missed several court appearances, and she has an important trial coming up. But no one knows where she is.”

“She didn’t call in?” Blair asked.

“No, sir.”

“I’m fairly certain she isn’t here.”

Now it was Robb’s turn to furrow her brow. “You don’t know?”

“Carrie and I don’t see much of each other,” he said brusquely. “This is a big house. She has her rooms and I have mine.”

“Could you have someone check to see if Mrs. Blair is home?”

“Certainly.”

Blair signaled for the houseman.

“Walter, when is the last time you remember seeing Mrs. Blair?”

“She was here Sunday for dinner but Monday was my day off. I visited my mother in New Jersey and I left here Sunday night and caught a late flight. I didn’t see her on Tuesday.”

“Can you please check Carrie’s rooms, and see if her cars are in the garage.”

As soon as the houseman left, Robb asked if Blair had seen his wife on Monday.

“No. I saw her last Thursday. Then I was in New York on business until Monday morning. If she came home Monday I didn’t see her.”

“Does Mrs. Blair have friends she may be visiting?”

“Carrie has never been very sociable. The friends I know about all work with her. I do have a question, though.”

“Yes?”

“Why did the commonwealth attorney send a detective to check on Carrie instead of a patrol officer? Isn’t that unusual?”

“Yes, sir, it is, but the circumstances warrant a broad inquiry. Your wife has prosecuted some very dangerous people.”

“You think harm may have come to her?” asked Blair.

“We have no evidence to support that conclusion. Quite honestly, we’re stumped.”

The houseman reentered the kitchen. “Mrs. Blair’s Porsche is not in the garage, and her bed doesn’t appear to have been slept in.”

“Thank you, Walter,” Blair said to the houseman. “This is very upsetting,” he told Robb.

“Can you describe Mrs. Blair’s Porsche?”

Horace described the car and gave the detective the license plate number.

“Please keep me up to date on your investigation,” Blair said.

“I’ll definitely keep you in the loop. And you let me know if she gets in touch.”

The detective handed Blair her card and left. Blair stared at it. Robb was with homicide. She had not told him that, probably because she didn’t want to worry him. And Horace was worried. He and Carrie may have fallen out of love, but he had been in love with her once upon a time. The marriage had withered, and Horace was bitter because of the prenuptial agreement, but he didn’t hate Carrie, and he hoped that nothing serious had happened to her.