A Welcome Grave Read Free Page B

the broken wineglass and set it back on the coffee table. There was a photograph in a silver frame on the table: Jefferson and Karen kissing on a veranda, probably taken in someplace like Paris. I returned my attention to the spilled wine. Some of it was soaking into a rug beneath the coffee table that was probably worth more than my gym.
    “Want me to grab some paper towels?”
    “It’s fine.”
    “Okay.”
    We sat and looked at each other. Her chest rose and fell under her shirt. I switched my gaze from her to the broken glass and the wine on the floor and back again.
    “Karen, what the hell’s going on?”
    She drew in a long breath, ran her hands through her hair again, and shook her head. “My husband was murdered, Lincoln. That’s what’s going on. My husband was brutally—”
    “There’s something else.”
    “No.”
    “Karen.”
    She looked away, and when she spoke again it sounded as if she were on the verge of being physically ill.
    “Do you have any idea what they did to him? They
tortured
him. Cut him with—”
    “I’ve heard. And I’m sorry. What you’re going through right now . . . I can’t say anything of substance to you because words aren’t worth a damn. Particularly words from me, I’d imagine.”
    There was a long silence, and then I said, “So what is it that you want?”
    She stared at me for a few seconds. “You’ll be well paid.”
    I spread my hands. “For what?”
    The big house felt empty in the way only too-large spaces can. From where I sat, I could see the steps leading up to the second floor, where a hallway crossed over the living room and kitchen. There were a few paintings on the walls in the hallway, and I would’ve bet everything I had that neither Karen nor Alex Jefferson had picked them out. Interior designer, all the way.
    “I need help.” She was leaning forward, gripping the edge of the chair so tightly her fingernails were probably cutting into the leather, her eyes fixed on mine.
    “With what?”
    “Alex’s son.”
    “I’ve never been real good with kids.”
    “I need to find Alex’s son.”
    I frowned and cocked my head. “He doesn’t know his father’s dead?”
    “No.”
    “And you don’t know how to get in touch? Don’t have a phone number, an address?”
    “No.”
    “Tell the cops to find him.”
    “I don’t want them . . . It’s awkward.”
    “Why?”
    “Alex hadn’t spoken to him for several years. To his son. They were estranged.”
    “The police can find him.”
    “I need someone else to find him.” This through clenched teeth, her eyes hard.
    “There are a hundred private investigators around, Karen. Any of them could do it.”
    “I need someone I can trust.”
    “And you can trust me?”
    “Yes.”
    She said it immediately and with confidence. Instead of being flattered, I was angry. All the things that had happened between us, and she was still sure I’d be there when she needed me. That I’d do what she wanted, as she wanted.
    I shook my head. “I’m not the man for the job, Karen. Sorry.”
    I was thinking about getting to my feet and moving for the door when she said, “He’s inheriting eight million dollars, and he doesn’t know it.”
    “They were estranged, and the kid’s still getting eight million?”
    She nodded. “And he doesn’t even know Alex is dead. I need someone to find him, so I can tell him these things. And so . . .”
    “What?”
    She dropped her eyes. “It doesn’t need to be in the paper and on TV, Lincoln.”
    “What doesn’t?” I waited. “That Alex Jefferson was estranged from his son?”
    She nodded but didn’t look at me.
    “Ah,” I said. “Image. I see.”
    Her head rose, and this time her look was sharp. “It’s not that.”
    I didn’t say anything. She took her hands off the chair to lean forward, and when she did it they were shaking. She pressed them together and squeezed them between her knees. “You know what one percent of eight million dollars is,