I nodded. “I think the entire plaza heard you.” A ratty pigeon, his head bobbing, walked around in circles close by, pecking at dreck. I eyed him warily. “If you’re done barking, maybe we can discuss the issue at hand like civilized adults? You’ve spoken to your mother, to Felton, so you know what this is about. I have only a few questions and then I’ll be on my way. Or we can continue this little pissing match, wasting my time and yours, for as long as you think it’s necessary . . . which would you prefer?”

His eyes, stunningly cold, a carbon copy of his mother’s, went hard, vengeful, his thin lips tightened. This was not a man who skipped lightly through fields of tulips or snuggled kittens. “My family’s affairs are none of your concern.”

“I agree. I’m not interested in your family’s affairs. I want to know what you know about Tim’s connection to Nicholas Spada. I may have discovered a reason why he might have wanted your brother dead. That’s my concern, my one and only. I’d like your help, if you’re willing to give it. I know you and your brother weren’t on the best of terms, but he was an Ayers. I’m hoping that means something to you.”

“Why the hell would anyone want to kill Tim? He didn’t have anything. He wasn’t important. Now you think Spada is somehow involved with him falling off that damned boat? Father should never have left it to him in the first place.” He chuckled meanly. “As for Spada, he’s a wannabe, a lightweight. He might have used Tim to get to us, but he wouldn’t dare kill him. Our family is—”

I cut him off. “An old, established family, yes, I know. Your mother told me.” I exhaled deeply, tired of the exchange. I checked over my shoulder, feeling more than a little exposed. I turned back to Ayers. “Do you know a man named Vincent Darby?”

“I don’t, and I don’t know Spada, except by dubious reputation. He’s nuevo riche.” Ayers sniffed the air as though he smelled something foul and distasteful. I understood then why Tim had been so adamant about getting away from him and his mother. There was a smugness to their wealth and position, a flintiness of spirit. “So if whatever agreement Tim had with him went sour, it’s his own fault. If he’d done what was expected of him, he’d be alive today.”

“Is that why you threw him under the bus by telling the police he was a prime candidate for suicide? Is that why you cut him off?”

The corners of his mouth turned upward, his eyes narrowed. “Who in their right mind would give up what he did? And I cut him off so he couldn’t piss away another nickel of Father’s money.”