I decided to walk on the wild side. “The police are suggesting that if Hiram is distracted by a family tragedy, he might let go of his dream of a bullet train. Leaving you as the only one with the resources and infrastructure to pursue it.”
Tate flushed. “You’re suggesting that I had something to do with what happened to the Davenports? That’s outrageous.”
“Did you?”
Tate’s spine went rigid. “Aside from how despicable that very suggestion is, if you knew anything about Hiram Davenport, you’d know that kind of strategy would never work.”
“Why is that?”
“For Hiram, relationships are a game. He likes to figure out your vulnerabilities and your ambitions and then use them against you. I don’t know if he’s capable of caring about other human beings, including his own family. The only thing that matters to him is his empire. And the centerpiece of that empire is his railroad. He’d never let anything distract him from that.”
“Not even his granddaughter?”
He gave me a contemptible look. “Depends on her value on the open market. I heard about the reward. Ten million is nothing to him. It just makes him look good.” He freed his hands and glanced at his watch. “I have to go.”
“One more question, Mr. Tate.” I thought of MoMA and the fact that both Samantha and Veronica Stern were part of the art scene. And that Stern had abandoned Lancing’s company for Hiram’s. “Do you like art?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”
“You know, sculpture, paintings. Photography.”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Would you say you’re a patron of the arts?”
“No. What are you getting at, Agent Parnell?”
“Never mind. Thank you for your time, Mr. Tate. Here’s my card. You’ll let me know what you learn about the site investigation?”
“If it will help find Lucy. But I want you to leave my father out of this. His life has been nothing but struggle. Now that he’s dying I’d like him to have some peace.”
CHAPTER 18
When I was very young, my mother took me to a fish farm. She thought it would please me to see the artificial ponds with their tiny fry. You could buy food from a machine for a quarter, and when you tossed the pellets in, the water boiled with gaping mouths as the fish fought for the food. That was what stayed with me. The water roiling with openmouthed fish. And the fighting.
—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
After Tate left, Clyde and I made our way through the ground-floor maze of shops and up to the second floor, where the residential area began. The elevators opened onto a lushly carpeted lobby that swallowed all sound. Marble columns, gilt-framed mirrors, individually lighted works of abstract art, and immense potted palms rounded out a décor that suggested a five-star hotel lobby rather than a Denver high-rise. Unlike the ground floor, up here there were no patrol cops or members of the press. Too gauche for the clientele, I imagined. There was a single security guard and one detective. I picked out the detective by his cheap suit.
Clyde and I crossed to the guard’s desk and I showed my badge. “I’m Special Agent Parnell with Denver Pacific Continental. Mr. Davenport is expecting me.”
The guard studied my badge, phoned in to verify it, then called up to Hiram’s penthouse and got the go-ahead to buzz me up. He escorted us to the elevator and pressed the call button. When the doors opened, he waved us in, then reached past me and inserted a passkey.
“You’re good to go,” he said.
Twenty-two floors up, the elevator doors opened onto an atrium filled with light from two banks of windows. The polished wood floors glowed serenely in the morning sun and the air smelled of flowers from an immense vase set on a glass table in the middle of the space.
All around the vase and piled on the floor were stuffed animals, cards, and more flowers. An outpouring of sympathy for Hiram.
A door straight ahead opened and a middle-aged man with a crew cut, arms big as tree trunks, and eyes like chipped glass emerged to check my credentials. He studied my badge, eyeballed Clyde, and asked if I had a gun.
I showed him.
“Empty it, please.”
These guys were serious. I shrugged and popped out the magazine then cleared the chamber. Pick your battles.
“What’s it like being the executive protection for a man like Davenport?” I asked by way of making conversation.
The muscle didn’t respond. He opened the door he’d just come through and gestured me to follow. “This way, Agent Parnell.”
He led me past spacious living areas and down a hallway filled with pictures of Hiram posing with a variety of dignitaries. Presidents and congressmen mainly, although there was the occasional Hollywood celebrity. I followed the muscle to a closed door near the end of the hall, where he stopped and knocked lightly. A voice from within told us to enter.
The first thing I saw as Clyde and I stepped through the doorway were the wraparound windows on three sides. I’d been right. The views were spectacular.
Hiram Davenport stood at the wall of windows that looked east, over the railroad tracks and into the heart of downtown Denver. Dressed casually in khaki pants and a polo shirt, he stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders back, staring out the windows like an emperor surveying his realm. Which was appropriate enough, I supposed.
Except that the image was marred by the long green hose that ran from the plastic tubing hooked over his ears to an oxygen concentrator humming quietly next to the sofa. Two nubs were fitted into his nostrils. This was new. And the reason for last night’s cancelled meeting, I assumed.
As Clyde and I crossed the floor to join him, I took in the rest of the room—the white-and-tan furniture, the tasteful objets d’art. Splashes of color in tribal-print rugs and a single piece of art over the white leather sofa—a painting of a man bending over to look at another man swimming in a pool. Green mountains rose in the background. I was sure it was original and expensive.
I couldn’t help it—my first thought was that this wasn’t a place where you brought the grandkids to play. What was it Samantha had said to Veronica Stern? That Hiram was big on gifts, less so on family events.
Hiram turned at my approach. He removed the oxygen leaders, turned off the machine, and beckoned for me to join him at the window. Clyde and I went to him and I ordered my partner to sit. Hiram gave Clyde a cold look but after a blink decided to accept my partner’s presence. He turned to me.
I’d been bracing myself for the man I’d seen at the police station the day before—a grieving father and grandfather. A man brought to his knees by the level of tragedy that had struck his family. But Hiram was as calm as if the worst thing he’d heard that day was that his favorite dish was missing from the menu. I looked for signs that he was on antianxiety drugs or self-medicating with alcohol. But his pale blue eyes were sharp when they met mine.
Only the oxygen gave away his struggle.
We shook hands, Hiram’s grip firm, his attention wholly on me. Of average height, Hiram wasn’t an imposing man. But he had presence.