“My brother’s blackmailer. I see you had no idea. It cost me two hundred thousand to keep him from dragging our name through the mud, but it doesn’t matter now. Tim’s dead. Now I want him to pay, just like I had to. I could ruin him financially, of course, but I think seeing him in prison would be much more satisfying. I might even come to visit him, just to see him squirm behind bars.”

“You never told the police about any blackmailer.”

“It was family business, not police business. Just another of Tim’s mistakes. This friend found out Tim had money, and went after it. Why not? He threatened to make things unpleasant, so I authorized the payment to make him go away. You’d think Tim would have been appreciative. He wasn’t. He said I did it for us, not for him. He was right, of course, but he was also an ungrateful bastard right to the end.”

That sounded like Teo Cantu, the Slinky artist, the ex Tim dumped unceremoniously, but I kept quiet, waiting to see what else Ayers would share. Just a moment ago he was in a hurry to be free of me, but now it seemed he had all the time in the world. “In the end, the amount was negligible. Getting Father’s boat back more than makes up for it.”

Thank God I wasn’t an Ayers. Money couldn’t buy happiness, and it couldn’t buy heart, compassion, or empathy. Stephen Ayers was an empty suit, a hollow man, a dead man walking amongst the living. I’d asked for the blackmailer’s name, but Ayers looked as though he enjoyed stringing me along. Could it be Cantu? If so, was it the blackmail and not the settlement that led to Tim’s death? Did Cantu somehow connect to Spada and Darby? Could Spada actually be legit? If so, where did that leave Darby? And Leon?

“Tell me who the blackmailer is,” I said.

Ayers watched me, appraising. “Why not, right? Why not sic you on him, and see if he can wiggle out of it. He can use my money to try and keep himself out of prison, if he hasn’t squandered it all.”

“Who?” I repeated, finding myself getting more desperate for the information with each passing moment. “Give me the name.”

Ayers paused, smiling, enjoying the power he held over me, the control. This is what Tim Ayers had come up against his entire life, this level of manipulation, cunning, and cruelty. Ayers casually glanced at his watch. “C.D. Ganz. That’s the son of a bitch. Now go make his life a living hell, and leave me and my family alone.”

My heart skipped a beat; my mind reeled, recalculated. “Ganz?”

Ayers walked away from me, and I stood stunned, silent on the busy plaza, pigeons circling my feet.

C.D. Ganz.

* * *