Felton’s ears turned red first; then his cheeks blossomed. “As I’ve just done.”

I chuckled. “Hardly. Like you said, I’m tenacious.”

I moved over and hit the intercom button again. “I don’t think Tim slipped from his boat, and I don’t think he jumped. I think someone killed him. I don’t know why yet, or who, but I’m working on it. I’d like to know why Stephen Ayers lied to the police about his brother’s mental state. I’d like to know where he was the night Tim died.” I slid a look at the fuming lawyer. “Robert V. Felton, Esquire, can bury me in orders to cease and desist, but I’ll keep digging. There’s nothing I hate more than someone who likes to play God by taking a life he’s not entitled to. If you decide you want to talk, I’m in the book.” I let the button go.

“Mr. Ayers died as the result of a tragic boating accident,” Felton said, his jaw clenched. “Nothing more.”

I smiled, but there wasn’t an ounce of good humor in it. “We’ll see. Good day, Mr. Felton.” I turned to the cops. “Let’s go, officers. I want to miss the midday traffic.”

The SUV followed me all the way to the feeder ramp of the Eisenhower. I waved at the cops before they peeled off and headed back to Fairyland. They both missed the middle finger that followed it up.

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

It was after two when I got back to civilization. The traffic had been horrendous, some pileup somewhere along the line, and my nerves were shot. I scanned the lakefront as I sped down the Drive headed south, looking for a little calming action. The beach at Fifty-seventh was teeming with sweaty city dwellers hoping to cool down in the murky water. Someone was probably getting their beach bag pinched while they were off wading hip deep in the lake, but I breathed in deeply, happy to be home. Even the air smelled different this side of the horse trails and tennis clubs; it was grittier, heavier, like it had attitude, like it was bad enough to slink down your throat and pull your kidneys out through your nostrils.

Felton sure knew how to earn his keep, I thought, but why had the Ayerses felt it necessary to warn me off before I’d even really started? Were they that averse to having their family talked about? Or were they hiding something? I hoped it was Elizabeth Ayers or Stephen on the other end of that intercom. If it had only been the butler, I’d wasted a good, badass speech.