Benedict said.
Schatz smiled. “He doesn’t have it. There are only two copies. They can’t make Blair incriminate himself by subpoenaing his copy, and no one knows where Carrie hid hers. So Hamada is fucked if he’s counting on producing the document in court.”
“That is a lucky break,” Benedict said.
“You aren’t kidding. If Hamada can prove that Blair was going to have to pay Carrie twenty million dollars during the week she was murdered, Blair can start making plans to furnish his cell on death row.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Charles Benedict was in an excellent mood when he returned to his office. The meal at Venezia had been outstanding, and Bobby Schatz’s plan for defending Horace Blair was not. Schatz was one of the best, but even great boxers like Muhammad Ali lost on occasion, and once in a while a great pitcher will get tagged for a home run. If Schatz tried Blair’s case the way he said he would, Commonwealth v. Blair would be tallied in Schatz’s loss column.
A woman with glasses and short, gray-streaked black hair looked up when Benedict entered his waiting room. She was dressed expensively in a severe charcoal-gray pantsuit, a black silk shirt, and a tasteful pearl necklace.
Benedict asked his receptionist about the visitor in a low voice.
“Her name is Myra Blankenship,” she whispered back. “She came in an hour ago. I told her that I didn’t know when you would return but she insisted on waiting.”
“Didn’t she call a day or so ago?”
“I believe so.”
“Did she tell you what she wants?”
“She said it was confidential and she’ll only talk to you.”
Normally Benedict would have had his secretary deal with someone who walked in without an appointment, but Blankenship’s attire suggested that she had money, and someone with money always deserved an audience. Benedict walked over to his visitor. Blankenship sprang to her feet. The attorney flashed his warmest smile.
“I’m Charles Benedict. I understand you want to see me.”
“Myra Blankenship,” the woman said as she extended her hand.
Benedict shook it. “How can I help you?”
The woman looked over Benedict’s shoulder at the receptionist. “The matter is rather delicate. I’d prefer to discuss it where we can’t be overheard.”
“Of course.”
Benedict led Blankenship to his office.
“I flew here from Seattle as soon as I heard,” Blankenship said as soon as Benedict shut the door.
“Heard what?”
“That Carrie Blair had been murdered. I was in Asia on a buying trip. I was supposed to return a few weeks ago but I was delayed. I e-mailed several times and called but Mrs. Blair didn’t get back to me. I was very upset. I thought the deal had fallen through. Then I arrived back in the States yesterday and learned that Mrs. Blair had been murdered and her husband was in jail.”
Benedict had no idea what Blankenship was talking about.
“Don’t get me wrong. Mrs. Blair’s violent demise is a terrible thing, but there are millions involved and I’m anxious to know if she left any instructions, or if perhaps Mr. Blair was interested despite his”—Blankenship paused, looking for the right words—“present situation.”
The phrase “millions involved” had piqued Benedict’s interest.
“What is it you do, exactly?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just wound up, and I’m still a bit jet-lagged. I’m an art dealer. Martin Draper owns a gallery in Seattle. He sells contemporary pieces: a lot of glass, modern art, some local artists, and a few with national reputations. Every once in a while he is approached about acquiring Asian art. My specialty is Oriental antiquities. I lived in Asia for several years and made contacts there. When a customer wants something in this area, Martin calls me.”
Blankenship paused, and her eyes lost focus as if she were looking at something far away that only she could see.
“The scepter is special, Mr. Benedict. Martin could sense it. He called me immediately but I must admit I’ve never handled anything like it before.”
“What is your connection to the Blairs?”
“They have a home on Isla de Muerta, an island off the coast of Washington State. They came to the gallery looking for pieces to decorate their home. Some of the art they wanted was from Japan and China. That’s how I met them, through Martin.
“I only met Mr. Blair one time. Mrs. Blair was usually the person who came to the gallery. It wasn’t unusual for her to visit the gallery when she was in Seattle. I was consulted because the piece she was interested in was within my area of expertise.”
Blankenship paused. Benedict thought that she looked anxious.
“The