Shadowfires Read Free Page B

in the company would almost certainly, by default, come into her sole possession.

2
    SPOOKED
    The hot, dry air was filled with the crackle of police radios, a metallic chorus of dispatchers’ voices, and the smell of sun-softened asphalt.
    The paramedics could do nothing for Eric Leben except convey his corpse to the city morgue, where it would lie in a refrigerated room until the medical examiner had time to attend to it. Because Eric had been killed in an accident, the law required an autopsy.
    “The body should be available for release in twenty-four hours,” one of the policemen had told Rachael.
    While they had filled out a brief report, she had sat in the back of one of the patrol cars. Now she was standing in the sun again.
    She no longer felt sick. Just numb.
    They loaded the draped cadaver into the van. In spots, the shroud was dark with blood.
    Herbert Tuleman felt obliged to comfort Rachael and repeatedly suggested that she return with him to his law office. “You need to sit down, get a grip on yourself,” he said, one hand on her shoulder, his kindly face wrinkled with concern.
    “I’m all right, Herb. Really, I am. Just a little shaken.”
    “Some cognac. That’s what you need. I’ve got a bottle of Rémy Martin in the office bar.”
    “No, thank you. I guess it’ll be up to me to handle the funeral, so I’ve got things to attend to.”
    The two paramedics closed the rear doors on the van and walked unhurriedly to the front of the vehicle. No need for sirens and flashing red emergency beacons. Speed would not help Eric now.
    Herb said, “If you don’t want brandy, then perhaps coffee. Or just come and sit with me for a while. I don’t think you should get behind a wheel right away.”
    Rachael touched his leathery cheek affectionately. He was a weekend sailor, and his skin had been toughened and creased less by age than by his time upon the sea. “I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I’m fine. I’m almost ashamed of how well I’m taking it. I mean . . . I feel no grief at all.”
    He held her hand. “Don’t be ashamed. He was my client, Rachael, so I’m aware that he was . . . a difficult man.”
    “Yes.”
    “He gave you no reason to grieve.”
    “It still seems wrong to feel . . . so little. Nothing.”
    “He wasn’t just a difficult man, Rachael. He was also a fool for not recognizing what a jewel he had in you and for not doing whatever was necessary to make you want to stay with him.”
    “You’re a dear.”
    “It’s true. If it weren’t very true, I wouldn’t speak of a client like this, not even when he was . . . deceased.”
    The van, bearing the corpse, pulled away from the accident scene. Paradoxically, there was a cold, wintry quality to the way the summer sun glimmered in the white paint and in the polished chrome bumpers, making it appear as if Eric were being borne away in a vehicle carved from ice.
    Herb walked with her, through the gathered onlookers, past his office building, to her red 560 SL. He said, “I could have someone drive Eric’s car back to his house, put it in the garage, and leave the keys at your place.”
    “That would be helpful,” she said.
    When Rachael was behind the wheel, belted in, Herb leaned down to the window and said, “We’ll have to talk soon about the estate.”
    “In a few days,” she said.
    “And the company.”
    “Things will run themselves for a few days, won’t they?”
    “Certainly. It’s Monday, so shall we say you’ll come see me Friday morning? That gives you four days to . . . adjust.”
    “All right.”
    “Ten o’clock?”
    “Fine.”
    “You sure you’re okay?”
    “Yes,” she said, and she drove home without incident, though she felt as though she were dreaming.
    She lived in a quaint three-bedroom bungalow in Placentia. The neighborhood was solidly middle-class and friendly, and the house had loads of charm: French windows, window seats, coffered ceilings, a used-brick fireplace, and more.