new and unchafed look. “Please sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.” She sat and stared for a long moment at her slender hands, which were now ringless and gripped the purse that matched her gray suit. Even on the night of her husband’s death, despite the shock and dishevelment, she had been an attractive woman. Now that beauty was very clear, and made poignant by her melancholy. “I tried to get in touch with you earlier, but you were—”
“Out of the country. We had a client in Saudi Arabia—an oil company worried about the security of their executives.”
“I see.”
“I assume this isn’t a social visit, Mrs. Haas?”
“Well, I did want to thank you for your help that night.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“And to ask you something.” She looked up, her eyes still showing hurt. “I heard that my husband—that Austin—was suspected of taking the Lake Center and the Columbine proposals and selling them to the Aegis Group.”
I did not say anything.
“And I hear that you were investigating him.”
Leaning back in my chair, I looked at the scattering of items on the new desk: a file for papers, a glass bristling with assorted ball-point pens, a yellow legal tablet with a few scribbled notes, an appointment calendar, the latest copy of Guns Magazine.
“It is true, isn’t it?”
“That he was a suspect? Yes. Everyone who had access to the plans was a suspect. Everyone had to be. Why do you want to know?”
“There has to be some cause for what he did.”
“There was never any evidence that he was guilty.”
“Then who was?”
“We don’t know. Mr. McAllister closed the case just after your husband’s death.”
“Because he was sure Austin did it?”
“Not at all. He said the projects weren’t worth even the possibility of another death, and he didn’t want to take a chance on causing any more pain like yours.”
Her long fingers absently stroked the purse in her lap, furring the gray suede and then smoothing it again.
“But you were investigating Austin in particular when it happened, weren’t you?”
“That’s all in the past now, Mrs. Haas.”
“But you were.”
“Yes.”
“And he could have been guilty?”
“There’s no evidence.”
“I want you to find out.”
“What?”
“I want you to determine if he was innocent or guilty.”
“Mrs. Haas, there’s no purpose in this. Why not leave it alone?”
“Suppose he was innocent?”
“He probably was. I’ve told you, there was no—”
“We both know what it implies when a man shoots himself while he’s under suspicion. The children have already asked why their father did it. I don’t have any reason to give them. And I don’t want someone else telling them it was because he was a thief.”
“Who told you about your husband?”
“A friend who’d heard some gossip among the company wives. It’s only a matter of time before their children hear it—and then mine.”
“I see … “ I tapped the legal pad in line with the edge of the blotter. “Suppose—only supposing now—that he was guilty?”
The fingers stroked again before she looked up without flinching. “Then I will know why he did it. As it is, he’s assumed to be guilty anyway.”
“I don’t think I want this job.”
“Why?”
“If, some way, your husband found out about my investigation, then I may have contributed to his death.”
“If you won’t do it, I can get someone else. But they’ll have to start all over at the beginning. Mr. Kirk—Devlin—Austin did not steal those proposals. But even if it were possible, I know he wouldn’t have shot himself for something like that. He was a strong man, very strong. That’s why Owen hired him and promoted him so rapidly.”
Which circled back to the familiar question: Why did he do it?
And she seemed to read my mind. “Perhaps that’s what I’m really after, Devlin: to know.”
“Sometimes there is no explanation. Sometimes there’s
“No, thank you.” She sat and stared for a long moment at her slender hands, which were now ringless and gripped the purse that matched her gray suit. Even on the night of her husband’s death, despite the shock and dishevelment, she had been an attractive woman. Now that beauty was very clear, and made poignant by her melancholy. “I tried to get in touch with you earlier, but you were—”
“Out of the country. We had a client in Saudi Arabia—an oil company worried about the security of their executives.”
“I see.”
“I assume this isn’t a social visit, Mrs. Haas?”
“Well, I did want to thank you for your help that night.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“And to ask you something.” She looked up, her eyes still showing hurt. “I heard that my husband—that Austin—was suspected of taking the Lake Center and the Columbine proposals and selling them to the Aegis Group.”
I did not say anything.
“And I hear that you were investigating him.”
Leaning back in my chair, I looked at the scattering of items on the new desk: a file for papers, a glass bristling with assorted ball-point pens, a yellow legal tablet with a few scribbled notes, an appointment calendar, the latest copy of Guns Magazine.
“It is true, isn’t it?”
“That he was a suspect? Yes. Everyone who had access to the plans was a suspect. Everyone had to be. Why do you want to know?”
“There has to be some cause for what he did.”
“There was never any evidence that he was guilty.”
“Then who was?”
“We don’t know. Mr. McAllister closed the case just after your husband’s death.”
“Because he was sure Austin did it?”
“Not at all. He said the projects weren’t worth even the possibility of another death, and he didn’t want to take a chance on causing any more pain like yours.”
Her long fingers absently stroked the purse in her lap, furring the gray suede and then smoothing it again.
“But you were investigating Austin in particular when it happened, weren’t you?”
“That’s all in the past now, Mrs. Haas.”
“But you were.”
“Yes.”
“And he could have been guilty?”
“There’s no evidence.”
“I want you to find out.”
“What?”
“I want you to determine if he was innocent or guilty.”
“Mrs. Haas, there’s no purpose in this. Why not leave it alone?”
“Suppose he was innocent?”
“He probably was. I’ve told you, there was no—”
“We both know what it implies when a man shoots himself while he’s under suspicion. The children have already asked why their father did it. I don’t have any reason to give them. And I don’t want someone else telling them it was because he was a thief.”
“Who told you about your husband?”
“A friend who’d heard some gossip among the company wives. It’s only a matter of time before their children hear it—and then mine.”
“I see … “ I tapped the legal pad in line with the edge of the blotter. “Suppose—only supposing now—that he was guilty?”
The fingers stroked again before she looked up without flinching. “Then I will know why he did it. As it is, he’s assumed to be guilty anyway.”
“I don’t think I want this job.”
“Why?”
“If, some way, your husband found out about my investigation, then I may have contributed to his death.”
“If you won’t do it, I can get someone else. But they’ll have to start all over at the beginning. Mr. Kirk—Devlin—Austin did not steal those proposals. But even if it were possible, I know he wouldn’t have shot himself for something like that. He was a strong man, very strong. That’s why Owen hired him and promoted him so rapidly.”
Which circled back to the familiar question: Why did he do it?
And she seemed to read my mind. “Perhaps that’s what I’m really after, Devlin: to know.”
“Sometimes there is no explanation. Sometimes there’s
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