Page 5 of Nash Falls
Nash stared at him in an uncomprehending swirl of tipsy.
Morris said, “The temperature really dropped. Doesn’t feel like June, does it?”
Nash did his best to focus. “You want to come inside?”
“For a chat. Lengthier talks will follow, of course.”
Something finally managed to weave its way through the scotch and brandy and into Nash’s normally logical and focused mind.
Words then poured out like confetti at a wedding. “Oh, God, this has to do with my father, right? What laws did he break? He’s dead now. I don’t see what I can do. If there’s a problem, I have—And I’mnota prick. I don’t give a damn what Shock—”
“It’s actually nothing to do with your father, sir,” broke in Morris.
Nash, in his diminished capacity, did not seem to grasp the man’s response.
“I have a lawyer, a good one, but I have no liability. As I said, my father—”
Morris gripped Nash’s forearm. “And asIsaid, it’s nothing to do with your father.”
“But what then?”
“Shall we step inside? I think it best. For everyone.”
CHAPTER
5
NICE PLACE,” SAID MORRIS AShe looked around the spacious and tastefully decorated lower level of the Nashes’ elegant home.
Nash did not hear this because he was in the bathroom wiping off his fouled pants with a wet towel. After he had finished, Nash, using the same towel, also quickly cleaned his vomit off the patio’s stone floor.
Then, pale and unsteady, he eyed the FBI agent.
Morris said, “How about some coffee? I see a fancy machine over there.” The agent pointed to a fully equipped bar area next to three tall Sub Zero wine chillers.
“I can make you a cappuccino,” said Nash, sounding put out by the prospect.
“Only if you’ll have one too, sir. Might set you… a bit better for our conversation.”
Nash pulled out the ingredients, nimbly operated the machine, and produced two cups of steaming, foamy liquid.
They sat around a small, leather-embossed table where Judith would play cards with her girlfriends. Behind a nearby door was a fully equipped gym that his wife frequented daily. Maggie faithfully used it, too, telling her father that physical appearance was critical to her product and brand. Nash would open the gym door on occasion and idly look at all the ways to improve one’s “appearance,” and then he would wander off and finish his potato chips and ice cream.
And still, he never put on a damn ounce.
“Excellent cappuccino, Mr. Nash, thank you,” said Morris,wiping the foam off his lips with a paper napkin taken from a holder on the table.
“What is this about if it’s not to do with my dad?”
Morris slid a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. He opened the notebook. “Oh, Iamsorry for your father’s passing.”
“Thank you. So why is the FBI interested inme?”
“Sybaritic Investments. You’re head of acquisitions.”
This opening salvo gave Nash pause. He had been deposed many times during civil lawsuits filed in connection with his work; it just came with the territory. He had been taught thatyes,no, andI don’t recallwere the only three acceptable responses in such a situation.
“Yes.”
