Free The Little Death by Michael Nava

corridor lined with closed doors. I heard a lot of
frantic voices coming from behind those doors. The refrigerated air blew
uncomfortably as I made my way down the hall looking for Gold’s office. This,
it occurred to me, was my idea of hell. Just then, a door opened and Gold
stepped out and came toward me. The stride was a touch less athletic today, I
noticed, and the stomach muscles sagged a bit beneath his elegantly tailored
shirt. He was tired around the mouth and eyes and his shaggy hair looked
recently slept on.
    As
we stepped into his office, he instructed his secretary that we were not to be
disturbed. On his desk was yesterday’s paper turned to the story of Hugh’s
death. I sat down on a comer of the desk while Aaron stood irresolutely before
me.
    “I
was going to call you,” he said.
    “I’ve
saved you the trouble.” I lifted a corner of the newspaper. “Hugh told me he
was in danger of being murdered. I didn’t believe him.”
    Gold
said nothing.
    “He
even told me who the murderer would be, his grandfather, Robert Paris. A
client of your firm.”
    Gold
shook his head.
    “That
can’t be true,” he said, unconvincingly.
    “Then
what were you going to call me about?”
    Gold
wandered over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself some scotch. He held the
bottle at me. I shook my head.
    “You
got Hugh’s letters from someone,” I continued, “presumably the recipient. If
Robert Paris is involved in Hugh’s death and you’re protecting him, you’re
already an accessory.”
    “Don’t
lecture me about my legal status,” Aaron snapped. “I just want to talk.”
    “I’m
listening.”
    “Judge
Paris’s account is managed by the two most senior partners in the firm,” he
began, “but there’s enough so that some of it trickles down to the associates.
I’ve done my share of work on that account and I’d heard of Hugh Paris, knew he
was the judge’s grandson. I’d heard he was bad news,” Aaron shrugged. “I really
didn’t give it much thought.”
    He
sipped his drink.
    “Still,”
he continued, “when you told me he was in jail, I thought that was important
enough to mention to one of the partners on the judge’s account. I thought we
might want to do something for him.”
    You
did, I thought, but said nothing.
    “I
got the third-degree,” Aaron said. “The two partners questioned me for more
than an hour. When they were satisfied I wasn’t holding back anything they
explained to me that Hugh had made threats against the judge’s life. I was
shown the letters and asked to report back to them anything else that I might
learn from you of Hugh’s activities.”
    “And
did you?”
    “Of
course I did,” he replied, emptying his glass. “The partners had me convinced
that Hugh was dangerous. They told me that he was a drug addict, that his
father was crazy. There were disturbing reports from private investigators who’d
been hired to keep an eye on him in New York. I not only believed Hugh was a
threat to his grandfather but also to you.”
    I
shook my head. “You never met him.” Aaron wasn’t listening.
    “But
the more they confided in me,” he said, “the stranger it seemed that the judge
would go to such lengths and to such expense to keep track of Hugh. It seemed
completely out of proportion to any possible threat Hugh may have posed to
Robert Paris.”
    “And
now Hugh is dead.”
    “Yes.”
He rose from the couch and went back to the liquor cabinet, pouring another
drink. “Three days ago I had a meeting with the partners on the Paris account.
They asked me a lot of questions about you — questions that contained
information they could have got only by having had you followed.”
    “What
kind of questions?”
    “They
wanted to know the nature of your relationship with Hugh.”
    “And
did you tell them?”
    “No,
but I think they already knew.”
    We
looked at each other.
    “Three
days ago,” I said, “and the next day we had lunch and you tried to talk me