Deadly Pedigree - By Jimmy Fox Page 0,30

to draw-and-quarter him about Hawty’s architectural activism. Had to be. But what was this “crime” stuff? Artemis, Armiger…they had a familiar ring. Yes, of course. Una had spoken of Artemis the other day, at the Folio.

Artemis of Greek lore protected innocence and punished hubris. Mrs. Armiger’s darker incarnation of the mythological huntress seemed distinctly short in the empathy and justice departments. Nick suspected that this Artemis was wholly concerned with making the powerful even more powerful. He didn’t want to find out what it did to people like him.

“Oh, have no concern about your employee’s persistence in requesting the alterations to the structure. Hawty Latimer,” she said, referring to a small notepad in a plush-looking leather case. “I admire that young woman. We share a certain intellectual impatience. In fact, I offered her a position with my company. She turned me down; she was concerned the full-time job, flexible and lucrative as it was, would interfere with her schooling, and with her work for you. Admirable.

“These things–cosmetic, really–should have been done long ago by the former owners. We acquired the building only recently. Many such details have been on my list. I find that in business, as in life, the simple things, the easily solved minor problems, are often put off until circumstances demand action. What one must always keep in the forefront is survival.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Nick said, carefully noncommittal. At the moment, Nick was interested in his own survival. He knew he wasn’t exhibiting an exceptional amount of Hemingway’s grace under pressure. When the bull charged, Nick preferred to be behind the protective fence. Ernest would have thrown his drink on him in disgust. This woman intimidated the daylights out of him.

“You are currently employed by a man named Maximilian Corban. You are investigating the history and possible descendants of a man named Balazar. Max Corban is a liar. This is not his family. It is mine.”

“What? Sorry, you lost me. Are you two related?”

“Not remotely.”

“Why would Max pay me to do genealogical research on a family that isn’t even his own?” Though he wasn’t sure he believed her, her words seemed to explain that pebble of doubt he’d had in his boot about Corban. “And how do you know what I’m doing for him, anyway? That’s confidential.”

“A few innocent questions at the public library and the Plutarch. You see, I have been conducting my own research. I’ll take up the story where I believe he left off. He was indeed unfortunate enough to be a victim of the Nazis. That much is true. I have heard his story, and I sympathize deeply with him. He has even told you the truth up to the time of his arrival and subsequent moderate success here in New Orleans. But in 1987, his story begins to involve me, and my family.”

There was that ominous tone again under the words “my family.”

“One of the many divisions of Artemis Holdings is an investment group. We have a public brokerage and advisory service, but we do more work with private clients of considerable means who seek specialized investment services. We have just opened, as a matter of fact, a new mutual fund managed by my daughter, that specializes in what is known today as ‘socially conscious’ companies.”

She gave what Nick supposed was, for her, a chuckle.

“A fad of political correctness married to the age-old blind altruism of youth. But the demand among my daughter’s generation seems to be there. I venture to say they will one day realize that money and conscience cannot coexist in the same boardroom. Inevitably, when there is a choice to be made, it will be conscience that yields. My daughter seems to believe the pious claims of company officers…forgive me this little digression. I am proud of my daughter, even though she has much to learn.

“Now, Max Corban. I’ll refrain from going into the details of his complaints. I can see you are not at home discussing financial matters of these kinds.”

Right she was. Nick was usually searching for spare change between the cushions of his couch, not pondering interest rates and the Dow.

“Artemis was found blameless by the appropriate regulatory entities. So, I will simply say that Mr. Corban, like many investors, suffered severe paper losses in the crash of ’87. Unnerving, yes; irreversible, no. He had consistently chosen the riskiest portfolio allocation. His downfall was primarily his own doing.

“But Max–I call him that, because at one time we were on