Tick Tock (Michael Bennett 4)

MR. APT, I KNOW HOW UPSET YOU ARE. I AM NOT HOME. THERE IS A CELL PHONE ON THE DINING ROOM TABLE. PLEASE HIT THE REDIAL SO WE MAY SPEAK. ALLEN.

A trick? Apt thought, listening very carefully. Duques was smart, almost as smart as Lawrence.

After a minute, Apt broke through the banner and picked up the Motorola in the center of the huge antique Spanish farmhouse table.

“Carl, I’m so glad you called,” Duques said with audible relief.

“Where’s my money, Allen?” Apt said.

“I froze the account. I didn’t know any other way to contact you. There have been some developments.”

“You have my complete, undivided attention, Allen.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Berger is dead.”

Carl closed his eyes as he took a long deep breath. Knowing this was coming didn’t make it hurt any less.

He opened his eyes and stared at the painting over the sideboard. It looked French Impressionist, but he could tell right away that it was actually a cheap French Impressionist knockoff bought in Vietnam.

Carl swallowed, his eyes watering.

Lawrence had taught him that.

Lawrence had given him everything.

Chapter 96

“WAS IT HIS HEART?” Apt finally said.

“No. It looks like he

committed suicide. He had some sort of pill hidden in his mouth when he was arrested. At least that’s what the police are saying.”

Carl thought about that. Lawrence dying alone. His friend. It broke his heart. If only he could have been there.

“Carl, are you still there?”

“Yes,” Apt said, hiding the sadness howling through him. “What now?” he said.

“First off, in case this is being recorded, I would like to state that I, Allen Duques, am in no way complicit with any illegal activities, but am merely in the process of dispensing the will of the Lawrence M. Berger estate, of which I am sole executor.”

“Whatever,” Apt said. “Where’s the money?”

“Yes, of course. In front of you, down the hallway, is my den. Do you see it?”

Apt crossed the room and pushed through some French doors.

“I’m there.”

“Excellent. On the leather couch are two valises.”

Apt clicked on the desk light.

“The black suitcases?” Apt said, spotting them.

“Yes.”

Apt opened them without checking for wires. The thought of Duques blowing up his anal-retentive-designed interior of his mansion was laughable. Inside the bags were hundred-dollar bills. Lots and lots and lots of them. Stacks upon stacks.