Jules coughed to cover his laughter, looking pointedly away.
So Sam was left to ask his less pressing questions. “You said you weren’t surprised to be cut out of your father’s will—that you broke ties... was it ten years ago?” he asked Milt now.
“Eleven,” Milt said, adding, “I think. Around there.”
“Was there a... instigating incident, or...?”
The lawyer looked over at Milt at that, and Milt glanced back at the man before saying, “Just... me being done with his endless bullshit. You know how it is.”
And even though Sam knew exactly what it was like to be completely done with an asshole father’s endless bullshit, he also knew that Milt was lying about this. His “line delivery,” as Jules’s actor husband Robin would describe it, was a tad too casual.Nothing to see, move it along... It was clear from the way that Jules was nodding that he picked up on that, too.
But okay, team, let’s play pretend.
“So you figured it wasn’t gonna be you named in the will,” Sam said to Milt. “Did you have any guesses who it might be instead?”
“Well, like, his dog, if he had one,” Undead-Milt said with a laugh. “But dogs didn’t like him very much. Cats even less, so I dunno. Maybe some charity, but something offensive like some NIMBY organization or anti-vax group.” He again looked to Harper. “You knew him better.”
“I believed it was going to be you,” Harper responded primly. “And it was, up until?—”
“It wasn’t,” Milt finished for him. “You really think it was by chance that he rewrote his will while you were unavailable? You’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”
Harper huffed his outrage, but held his tongue.
Sam turned to the lawyer. “Who would’ve been your best guess, if you’d been in the office at that time, and heard that he was coming in to do a rewrite?”
Harper sighed his exasperation. “I really couldn’t say.”
“You were managing his funds,” Sam pushed. Harper had already told them he hadn’t delegated the day-to-day management of Dead Milt’s expenses to some lower-paid underling, which seemed odd. But maybe not. Dead Milt’s shit-ton of money surely had bought him a lot of hand-holding and ass-kissing by this named partner at his small but elite firm.
Harper exhaled again. “I honestly don’t know. I guess I might say... a female companion—he had plenty of those, and his note certainly implies...” He cleared his throat. “All three of his wives predeceased him, but after Tiffany passed, he was vocal about never marrying again. Both divorces before her were acrimonious but her cancer was even more unpleasant.”
Milt made a strangled sound that might’ve been laughter. “Yeah, my mother’s cancer really madeDad’slife a shitshow. Jesus Christ, Ernie, you’re as awful as he was.”
“I’mawful?” Harper countered, his indignation bloomingas Sam settled back to observe what details might be revealed as the client and his father’s lawyer mud wrestled.
But it was not to be, because Harper was well aware that Jules and Sam were listening closely. He reined himself in and said, “If we’re done here.” There was nodot dot dotwith a question mark in his voice, but Sam didn’t care.
“Almost,” he said cheerfully. “Just give me a gut reaction, since you two knew Dea—” Don’t call him Dead Milt! “DevonshireSenior, and well, obviously we never met him. Is Emily Johnson more likely to be a common-law partner or a hooker with a heart of gold? Don’t think too hard, just knee-jerk your answer.”
Of course they didn’t. They took their sweet time as they looked at each other again—but maybe that was just to see who was going first. Wig-Milt gestured for Harper to speak.
“I learned to never assume I could guess what Mr. Devonshire might want or do,” Harper said stiffly.
“He certainly had a penchant for buying things that aren’t normally for sale,” Milt chimed in with—interesting—a sharper than usual edge to his voice, and again Harper looked over at him for more of that loaded eye contact. But then Milt laughed and shrugged. “But if I pissed him off—and I’m sure I pissed him off by not giving a shit about his money—Emily could’ve been some kid, knocking on his door selling Girl Scout cookies.”
Okay.
Last but way not least, it was time to point-blank the question he was dying to ask. No, notwigbut, “You really don’t seem bothered,” Sam aimed his words at Undead-Milt, “by the fact that your father’s millions are going to someone who’s a stranger to you. What’s up with that?”
Milt laughed a little. “Damn, you don’t pull your punches,do you? I like you.” He looked over at Jules, too. “I like both of you. This is good. I’m feeling good about this.”
Great, thanks, now answer the question. Sam kept his waiting-for-an-answer expression on his face.
Milt met his eyes and laughed again. “Mr. Starrett, I don’t want a fucking penny of that fucker’s money because, well, he’s a motherfucker. My tenth of a percent’s going to charity as soon as we find Emily and get this handled and as for me, well, he’ll finally be out ofmylife for good.”
“It’s a crap-load of money,” Sam countered. “The amount Emily’s getting.”
“It is,” Milt agreed. “But I don’t want it. Believe it or not, I have enough of my own, I don’t need his. I wantEmilyto have it—I mean, whoever she is, I don’t care who she is. He left it to her, so it’s hers. Let’s find her. I want to find her. Youcanfind her, right?” He looked from Sam to Jules. “You came highly recommended.”
