BOOK EXCERPT: THE HIDDEN KEY by DAVID E. GROGAN

1:17 a.m. on Friday, October 1, 2004
London, England

Steve took a sip of the stagnant coffee someone gave him after he arrived at New Scotland Yard from the hospital. The facility wasn’t the creepy Elizabethan building he imagined after watching movies as a kid. Instead, he found himself in a steel and glass high-rise in central London with the two men from the restaurant, who turned out to be detectives. The older of the two, his salt and pepper hair made him look about fifty, sat behind a modular desk that transitioned into a faux-wood credenza with bookshelves and cabinets once it reached the wall. The younger detective, black and of slighter build, looked to be in his early thirties. He sat next to Steve in front of the desk with a pad of paper in his lap, prepared to take down anything Steve said. The older detective, Cavendish, began the conversation, nonchalantly sliding his elbows across his desk toward Steve and resting his chin on his clasped hands.

“That was an ugly one, wasn’t it, Mr. Stilwell?” He didn’t give Steve time to respond. “It’s not every day you see someone blow their brains out at dinnertime, now is it?”

Tired, shaken, and surprised by Detective Cavendish’s callous characterization of his client’s death just a few hours before, Steve answered without the restraint he might otherwise have shown. “What the hell was that all about?”

“That’s what we were hoping you would tell us, Mr. Stilwell. You were the one talking to the man when he killed himself, now weren’t you?” Cavendish slid back to his original position, keeping his eyes pegged on Steve.

“I guess I was,” Steve admitted. He put his hands on his thighs, straightened his arms, and flexed his back to relieve the tension compressing his chest. He felt like he had to tell himself to breathe. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much. Arul Ashirvadam hired me to do some legal work and we had just finished our discussion when you came into the restaurant. You saw the rest.”

“Well, that’s a start, Mr. Stilwell. That’s certainly a start. But we’ll need more information than that, now won’t we?” Cavendish leaned forward and decreased his volume, but not his intensity. “The man’s dead, Mr. Stilwell. He’s dead, and the Crown Prosecutors will want to know why. You can understand that, can’t you, Mr. Stilwell? You being an American attorney and all?”

Steve knew Cavendish had to investigate Ashirvadam’s death. He also knew prosecutors would need to review the investigation file as a matter of course. But hearing Cavendish articulate it during what was seeming more and more like an interrogation and less and less like an interview caused reality to set in. Obviously, Cavendish had something on Ashirvadam or he wouldn’t have cornered him at the restaurant. Steve didn’t want to be guilty by association, so he intended to cooperate, although there were limits on what he could say. Cavendish had to know that.

“There’s not much more I can tell you, Detective,” he began, his reset nose throbbing as the painkillers wore off. “Ashirvadam contacted my office and arranged for us to meet in London at the Madras Star. I flew in this morning from the United States and we met at seven for the first time. He was in a hurry, so we went over the terms of representation and then he had to go. That’s when you came in. There’s not much more to it than that.”

“Well, it seems a reasonable question might be why he retained your services? You can answer that, Mr. Stilwell, can’t you? After all, your client is dead.”

Cavendish’s question opened Steve’s eyes. Cavendish wasn’t some bumpkin detective stumbling through the interview. He was a savvy interrogator asking seemingly unobtrusive questions that hid his deeper understanding. Cavendish knew Steve was bound by the attorney-client privilege not to disclose the confidences of his client, so he was trying to get Steve to lower his guard by implying the privilege no longer applied because Ashirvadam was dead. Steve needed to let Cavendish know it wouldn’t work.

“The fact that my client is dead really doesn’t matter, Detective Cavendish. In America, the attorney-client privilege continues even after a client dies. I’m sure that must be the same in England.” Asserting his client’s privilege gave Steve a certain amount of satisfaction, even though he actually wanted to cooperate.

“Yes, of course,” Cavendish replied, sounding more sophisticated. “I suppose you’re right.” He slid a single piece of paper in front of him that had been obstructed from Steve’s view by a wooden in-box filled full of documents. He consulted the paper briefly before speaking. “Unless your client talked to you about his will, which might make sense since you are a trusts and estates attorney, now aren’t you, Mr. Stilwell? If that were the case, then you’d be probating his will and it would become a public record, wouldn’t it?” Cavendish grinned, communicating his own level of satisfaction. “It’s amazing what you can learn on the Internet nowadays, isn’t it?”

Now Steve was unsure of whether he was speaking with Detective Cavendish or the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes. If he didn’t watch what he was saying, Cavendish might start to think he was hiding something, or in cahoots with whatever his client was involved in. This wasn’t a game.

“I’m sorry,” Steve admitted. “You’re correct. My client retained me to be the executor of his estate. I don’t have the will—he mailed it directly to my office—so I don’t know what it says. Once we get it, I expect we’ll probate the estate in the appropriate court in Virginia.”

“Very good,” Cavendish responded, clearly satisfied with the progress he was making. “Very good indeed. Will you be able provide us with a copy of the will?”

“I’d prefer not to do that,” Steve answered. “I don’t want to take any actions that could be construed as contrary to my client’s interests, especially since I’ve not even seen the will yet. But I can certainly let you know when and where we file the will so you can contact the Clerk of Court directly.”

“Brilliant,” Cavendish declared. “Now what else can you tell me? Did Ashirvadam tell you why he needed you to be his executor? Did he tell you what he was involved in?”

“You know I can’t disclose that. Besides, my guess is you know the answer or you wouldn’t have been after him. Why don’t you tell me what he was involved in?”

“Fair enough, Mr. Stilwell. But like you, there are limits on what I can discuss. Still, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give you some details, especially if it helps you keep us informed about your progress with Ashirvadam’s estate.” Cavendish brought his right hand close to his neck, and motioning from left to right, signaled to his partner to stop taking notes. “You will, I trust, be circumspect with what I am about to tell you.”

“Of course,” Steve replied, wondering what his fifteen-minute meeting with Ashirvadam had gotten him involved in.

“We’ve been watching Ashirvadam closely for quite some time. He’s a collector, you see.” Cavendish reached forward and retrieved an unsharpened pencil sitting on the large calendar ink blotter covering the top of the desk. He tapped the eraser end lightly on the calendar page, which still showed the month of July.

“Collector of what?” Steve asked.

“Antiquities.”

“So, I presume you are involved because not all of his purchases were above board?”

“Precisely. In fact, he’s rather crafty in that regard.”

“What do you mean?”

“His flat and office in London look like bloody museums. He’s a wealthy man, Mr. Stilwell, and he doesn’t mind showing it off. As far as we can tell, all those artifacts are legitimate acquisitions. It’s the ones he doesn’t display we are interested in.”

“If he doesn’t display them, how do you know he’s got them? And, if what you say is true, why didn’t you just arrest him?”

“Both very good questions, I can assure you.” Cavendish opened his desk’s middle drawer and stowed the pencil in a tray. He leaned well back into his chair and turned his head slightly, but looked back at Steve out of the corner of his eye as if he were passing an insight he knew Steve would find intriguing.

“Let me just say this. We’ve had an active black market in antiquities in London since the Iraq War started. I’m sure you’ve read in the headlines how the Iraqi National Museum and other historical sites were looted after the bombing started. Well, it seems Al Qaida has funneled some of those antiquities through its contacts in London, where they’re sold to raise money. We believe Ashirvadam may have purchased some of those items.”

Steve’s eyes grew large. A few hours ago, he was thrilled to have a new client who’d paid him a six-figure retainer. Now the client was dead, his possible links to international terrorism exposed, and Steve was being questioned by Scotland Yard. This was not the scenario he envisioned when he boarded the plane for London. Realizing his window for asking questions might close at any moment, he pressed Cavendish for more information.

“I don’t know what to say,” Steve admitted. “I had no way of knowing. But your answer begs the question. If you knew what he was doing, why didn’t you arrest him?” Steve thought for a second and then something even more perplexing came to mind. “And why did you burst on the scene in the restaurant? You’re not telling me everything, Detective Cavendish. There’s got to be more to the story.” Realizing he’d tapped into something big, he sat back and crossed his legs. “I need answers too, Detective Cavendish.”

“As I said before, good questions. Unfortunately, they are questions I am not prepared to answer. I’m afraid you will just have to accept that.”

“That’s not good enough,” Steve asserted, pressing his newfound advantage. “You drove my client to suicide and could have easily gotten me killed, too. I deserve answers.”

“Maybe so,” Cavendish replied in a half-volume voice, “but I’m afraid you won’t be getting them today.” Looking at Steve as if to challenge him, he added, “I think we are quite finished here. Detective Drinkard, do get a copy of Mr. Stilwell’s passport and contact information. Then he is free to go.”

“Certainly,” the younger detective replied as he stood up from his chair. “Mr. Stilwell, please follow me and I will get you taken care of.”

Steve didn’t stand. He couldn’t leave without a better resolution to his questions. “You’ve got to tell me what was going on here, Detective Cavendish. My client is dead.”

“I’ve already told you more than you needed to know. If I were you, I’d accept the gift I’d been given and move on before things get worse. Good day, Mr. Stilwell, and I do wish you a speedy recovery.” Cavendish nodded to his partner, communicating he should act with dispatch.

Steve knew it was futile to attempt to get additional information from Cavendish, at least for the time being. Perhaps after doing a little digging of his own, he would be in a better position to make another run on Cavendish at a time and place of his own choosing. For now, discretion was the better part of valor. He stood up and started to walk out, turning back to Cavendish when he reached the door.

“I’ll be in touch,” Steve pledged, “and I trust you’ll let me know when you are in a position to give me answers.”

Cavendish ignored him. He was already pretending to refocus his attention on a handful of papers he pulled from his inbox. Steve wasn’t fooled. Despite Cavendish’s calm exterior, he knew he’d struck a nerve. He just had to figure out how to exploit it.