Page 32 of Merciless Heir
“It’s not that fascinating and there’s nothing to steal. And I’m a control freak in that way. I have people. Great people. People who do certain things better than I ever could. People who do things I can’t. This shit…” I shrug. “I can do this. I have to make decisions and delegate. I have to sign off on a lot of things.”
“So you don’t take time off?”
“I am.”
“This isn’t time off, Kingston,” she says. “It’s not being in the office.”
“I’ll call you later. I have to deal with all this.”
And I don’t give her a chance to argue, I get out of the Jag and go inside.
To work.
It’s only sheer will that gets me through it. My mind keeps wandering back to the morning, to the search and why it’s important who made the jewelry. The pieces. And why the tiara is the one missing.
I pour a drink. Then set it down. I’m finding my mother’s part in this wholly suspicious. That grows with each passing minute.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m clutching at anything. But I’ll do that. I don’t like being used. I don’t like being manipulated. I don’t like games.
I feel like that’s what’s happening.
Without another thought, I grab my coat and head out into the early Manhattan evening.
A swift walk across the park really doesn’t do much. Not the bite of cold that makes my nose a little sore. Not the freshness the cold lends to the air.
It’s not until I’m at my mother’s place on Sixty-Third street that I realize what I’m doing. She opens the door on the fifth bang.
“I have a camera,” she says, letting me in. “I could see it was you. No need to huff and puff on my door like some kind of beast. I was upstairs getting ready.”
I close the door behind me. “Did you know Misty is at Father’s place? In White Plains?”
“No, I didn’t know.” She says this calmly, checking her make up in the eighteenth-century French-style living room. There’s an oval mirror in an ornate frame hanging over a delicately carved and polished table. “You came roaring over here to tell tales?”
“So you knew of the place?” I ignore her jab. “In White Plains?”
Faye sighs. “Your father owned a lot of places. He had a number of wives after me.” She says this like it’s some kind of unknown number as she runs a hand over her perfectly styled hair. Then she looks at me. “Why are you here?”
“Visiting my mother?”
“Kingston…”
I cross my arms. “What are you up to?”
“Excuse me?” she asks after a pointed pause I completely ignore.
“That’s why I’m here.” I move to the entrance of the room, where behind me the wide hall sits with its dark golden polished floorboards. “You asked, I’m telling. I want to know the answer to that. The what are you up to part.”
“I’m heading out for dinner, dear.”
She walks up and then stops as I don’t move out of her way and a small frown mars her perfectly made up face.
“You know what I’m asking.”
“Kingston, if you’re that hard up for companionship, you should have called ahead. This is a lady’s night and I don’t think a group of fifty something and up women are going to do it for you.” She gives my arm a squeeze. “Move please.”
“No.” I don’t let her leave her swank apartment on the East Side, where she likes it a little quieter. She has a place on the West side of the park, but uses that for parties and guests she’s not overly fond of. I lean against the door in the foyer and annoyance flickers over her face. “Just wondering what your hand in all this is, why you’d want to help Father.”
“Because it’s complicated. Because regardless of the divorce, we remained close. I have my reasons and I won’t be questioned by my son.”