“Eh, not sure yet. Thanks, Luce.”

I ended the call. Tim’s policy had to have been worth more than a hundred thousand, a lot more. He was an Ayers, after all. That meant his investor’s take would be a considerable amount, but the longer Tim lived, the less he or she got back. What if Sterling Associates had been in line to receive that return? Lucy said it was possible. That would mean Spada had a good motive for wanting Tim to die sooner rather than later. There was no telling how much longer Tim might have lived, were it not for the drowning. Spada, the ultimate businessman, would have been forced to stand by and watch good money fly out the window as Tim held on—and he didn’t strike me as the kind of person who’d take that loss, or any other, easily. What had he said in the elevator? He guaranteed his investors maximum results. He staked his reputation on it.

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

In my office, I dug some more on Nick Spada. He’d come back without nary a blemish on my earlier run, but that’s what worried me now. No one Spada’s age who had his wealth and business associations had a closet without a single skeleton rattling around in it. So where was Spada hiding the bones?

I readjusted the search parameters, requested a more detailed report, and left it at that for the time being. About to log off and shut down, I had a thought and searched Fleet Transports, and the building it was housed in. I needed to know who owned the property, because whoever did, the chances were good they also owned Leon. I lucked out. The search came back quick to a single owner: Tavroh Ltd., but there was next to no information on it, except for the name and a P.O. box.

“Well, that bites,” I muttered, tapping a pen on my desk blotter.

Frustrated, I shut the computer down and sat at my desk, watching the phone. Still nothing from Jung. I’d swung by the marina after getting the bum’s rush from Spada, but Jung was nowhere around, and I’d heard nothing new from him or from Marta, which told me Jung was still out there somewhere eluding the both of us. When the phone rang, I snatched up the receiver, hoping for a break.

“Raines Investigations.”

“Robert Felton.”

I frowned, and then pantomimed shooting myself in the head, my finger serving as the muzzle of an imaginary gun. “Yeah?”

“I won’t waste time with insincere pleasantries. Mrs. Ayers would like to meet. Tomorrow morning. Ten AM. Her home. You obviously know where that is.”

I leaned back in my chair, making it squeak, saying nothing for a time. I checked my watch. It was just after three. I’d wasted the entire day riding in elevators and punching computer keys.