Legacy

That’s an impressive endorsement. In Dad’s business, he sees hundreds of potential investments a year. He doesn’t consider investing his own money in many. “How much money do you think O’Sullivan had invested before pulling the plug?”

Dad shrugs. “To fund research like that? Would have been millions.”

“In the tens of millions?”

“Try hundreds of millions.”

“God. So O’Sullivan lost a shitload of money on Benton. Who else might have gotten hurt when the company went under?”

Dad thinks about it a minute. “Well, O’Sullivan was the primary moneyman. But the research director and his staff would most likely have taken part of their compensation as equity in the company.”

“Like the Microsoft people in the eighties?” I ask. “When the company went public, secretaries retired in their thirties as millionaires.”

“Good analogy. Unfortunately, the opposite is also true. When Benton went under, the equity became worthless.”

“But it doesn’t sound like O’Sullivan did anything illegal, does it? Why would he get in trouble over something like that?”

He shakes his head. “That I can’t answer. As far as I know, O’Sullivan, apart from losing a hell of a lot of his own money, did nothing wrong.”

There’s a timid knock on the door, and Trish peeks in. “Mom says breakfast is ready.”

Dad smiles at her. “We’ll be right there, honey.”

He stands away from the desk and waits for me to lead the way out of the den. “You know,” he says, “this Benton thing may not have anything at all to do with whatever trouble O’Sullivan had gotten himself into. I only mentioned it because it was odd. He was too good a businessman to take a company as far as he had only to dump the thing at the last minute. Something was off.”

I acknowledge his last remark with a nod, filing the information away. My mind, however, has already moved on. To a more immediate problem. One that awaits me in the kitchen. How am I going to get out of here without insulting my mother yet again by refusing food?

CHAPTER 39

TURNS OUT TO BE FAR EASIER THAN I THOUGHT. Mom is gathering purse and keys when Dad and I enter the kitchen. She throws me an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, A

Her attitude has softened, going from stiffly formal when she greeted me at the car, to being almost friendly. Is it for Trish’s benefit? I don’t care. I give her a quick hug and tell her if I’m not here when she gets back, I’ll be in touch soon.

I spend a few minutes sipping coffee and visiting with Dad and Trish before excusing myself. Trish is smiling and relaxed when I leave, making plans with Dad to go to a bookstore to find books on France. It’s the only mention of the upcoming move. I’m much happier with this image of my family than the one I left with last night.

I head downtown to see Gloria. I’ll tell her about my meetings with Jason and my dad, and ask if she’s heard anything about O’Sullivan and Benton Pharmaceuticals. I’m about to pull under the portico at the Four Seasons and let the valet park my car when a cop waves me off. The hotel entrance is clogged with police cars and rescue vehicles. Most likely some overweight tourist suffered a sun-and-booze-induced heart attack. Happens all the time. I make a U-turn and park on the street.

I dodge through the crowd that’s gathered in the lobby and make my way to a house phone. I have to dial the operator to be co

Looks like Gloria did add me to the list of people she’d deign to talk to. Good thing.

The phone rings three times before it is picked up.

“Gloria. It’s A

“Ms. Strong,” a male voice answers. “Come up.”

I don’t recognize the voice. One of Gloria’s lawyers maybe? “Who is this?”

“Detective Harris,” he replies. “I’ll tell the patrolman downstairs to show you right up.”

Detective Harris? Shit. What did Gloria do now? “Why are you with Gloria?” I ask. “She didn’t try to leave town, did she?”

“Depends on what you mean,” he says, his voice gruff. “Ms. Estrella tried to kill herself.”

I don’t wait to hear anything else but hang up and head directly for the penthouse elevators. Harris didn’t say she committed suicide, he said she tried to. Explains all the commotion in the lobby.

Now Gloria killing herself is about as plausible as Gloria killing O’Sullivan because he dumped her. She’s much too self-absorbed to do either, but I wouldn’t put it past her to stage a fake suicide in an attempt to get sympathy. Especially from David. That does sound like her. Ignore the deal we made. Attempt to influence the jury pool. I can think of a dozen reasons she might think a suicide attempt was a good idea.

I’m gearing myself up to lash out at her for being such a fucking idiot when Detective Harris meets me at the door.

“Where is she?”

He jabs a thumb toward the bedroom. “In there. She’s in pretty bad shape.”

“Will she live?”

He looks surprised at my tone. “Looks like it. I thought you were her friend.”

I push past him, insides curdling with anger. I start yelling even before I get to the door. “If you think I’m going to run to David and tell him how you—”

The words die in my throat, choked off by what I see when I stomp into the room. Gloria is on the floor, propped up against the footboard of the bed. Her hair is matted and her makeup is in streaks. She has on a nightgown that’s torn at the shoulder. Scattered around her are pill bottles and a single, empty bottle of scotch. She’s been vomiting; it pools around her and drips down her mouth and chin. She holds a wet rag in a limp hand. The paramedics have stopped doing whatever it was they’d been doing before I arrived. They’re standing back, keeping an eye on her, but gathering together their equipment. She doesn’t seem to know that I’ve come into the room.

I turn to the one closest to me. “What happened?”

He’s sliding a stethoscope into a bag. “Looks like she overdosed. On everything and anything she could find in the medicine cabinet. All over-the-counter stuff. Weird, really.”

“Why?”

“Because she had much stronger prescription medicine in her handbag.” He holds out a bottle of Valium. “If she’d taken the contents of this, we’d be wheeling out a corpse.”

I watch as they make final preparations to leave. The paramedic’s words seem to confirm my suspicion that Gloria staged this. A stunt to gain attention and sympathy.

Except for one thing.

If Gloria was going to put on this kind of show, she’d have damn well staged it better. She’d be dressed to the nines, hair and makeup perfect. No way would a narcissistic woman like Gloria allow anyone to find her with vomit on her face and a torn, stained nightgown on that Barbie-doll body.

Detective Harris moves into the room to stand beside me.

“What happens now?” I ask.

“She’ll be taken to the hospital, kept under guard.”

“Will you revoke her bail?”

“Depends on what the court-appointed shrink says after he talks with her. If he feels she’s not a danger to herself, he’ll let her come home. Assuming she has someone to come home to.”

He says the last in a way that suggests I’m supposed to be the one she comes home to. I don’t intend to commit to that now, but at the same time, I don’t want to see Gloria in jail. I have too many questions to ask her. I answer Harris by saying nothing at all.

He lets a minute go by before reaching into his jacket and pulling out a notebook. He flips over pages until he finds what he’s looking for. “I’m going to have to notify the DA about this,” he says.