The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  Harbor Drive offers a marvelous view of the boat basin and the Great Lake beyond it, white ice calves drifting in the dark water all the way to the horizon, to infinity, really.

  Few of the locals give it a glance, but the two cops paused a moment, taking it in. They’d both worked the concrete canyons of southern Michigan, Detroit for Doyle, Flint for Zee, before returning home to the north. Beauty shouldn’t be taken for granted.

  Totally rehabbed during the recent real estate push, the offices of Lehman and Greene were top drawer now, an ultra-modern hive of glass cubicles framed in oak with ecru carpeting. Scandinavian furniture in the reception area, original art on the walls.

  Doyle badged the receptionist, who buzzed Martin Lehman Jr. to the front desk. Mid thirties, with fine blonde hair worn long, thinning prematurely. Casually dressed. Shirtsleeves and slacks, loafers with no socks. No tie either. New age corporate chic.

  “How can I help you, Officer?”

  “It’s Sergeant, actually. I understand Jared Bannan works here?”

  “He’s one of the partners, yes. He missed a deposition this morning, though. Is there a problem?”

  “Maybe we’d better talk in your office, Mr. Lehman. Wait here, Redfern. I’ll call you if we need anything.”

  “Hurry up and wait,” Zina sighed, leaning on the reception counter as Doyle and Lehman disappeared down the hallway. “Is there a coffee machine somewhere?”

  “Over in the corner, I’ll get—”

  “Don’t get up,” Zina said. “You’re on the job, I’m just hanging around. Can I get you a cup?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” the receptionist said.

  “My treat,” Zina winked. “Working girls should look out for each other, don’t you think?”

  “Jared dead? Good lord,” Marty Lehman said, sinking into the Enterprise chair behind his antique desk. “We played golf last Saturday, I can’t—”

  He caught Doyle’s look.

  “We flew down to Flint, there’s an indoor course there,” Lehman said absently. “It doesn’t seem possible. Jared had so much energy … Had he been drinking?”

  “Did he drink a lot?”

  “Not really. He loved to party, though, and … look, I’m just trying to make sense of this.”

  “Join the club, Mr. Lehman. Your partner was apparently the victim of a hit and run that may have been deliberate. What kind of work did Mr. Bannan do here?”

  “Real estate cases, mostly. He was a fixer. He brokered deals, arranged financing, resolved legal problems. One of the best in the state. We were lucky to land him.”

  “But since at least one party’s unhappy in most business deals—”

  “You know that I can’t discuss Jared’s cases with you, Sergeant. Attorney/client privilege applies.”

  “I’m not asking for specifics.”

  “Even so, our firm’s reputation for discretion—”

  “Listen up, Mr. Lehman! Somebody rammed your buddy’s car off the freaking road, into a ravine. Where he burned to death! Do you get the picture yet?”

  “My god,” Lehman murmured, massaging his eyes with his fingertips.

  “I’m not asking you to violate privilege, but we could use a heads-up about any problem cases or clients that could have triggered this thing.”

  “That’s not so easy. Jared specialized in difficult cases.”

  “Define difficult.”

  “Property cases where the parties are in conflict, foreclosures, or the disposal of assets during a divorce. Jared loved confrontations. He’d needle the opposition until they blew, then he’d file a restraining order or sue for damages, generally make their lives miserable until they settled.”

  “So he was what? A hatchet man?”

  “The best I ever saw,” Lehman admitted. “The slogan on his office wall says Refuse to Lose. He rarely did.”

  “That kind of attitude might make him a few enemies.”

  “It also made a lot of money. Real estate law is a tough game, and Jared’s a guy you’d want on your team. Even if down deep, he scared you a little.”

  “Were you afraid of him?”

  “I had no reason to be, we were colleagues. But in court or in negotiations, he was a ferocious opponent. No quarter asked or given.”

  “I get the picture,” Doyle nodded. “Can you give me a quick rundown of any seriously unhappy customers?”

  “Butch Lockhart would top the list,” Lehman said, bridging his fingertips.

  “The Cadillac dealer? Used to play linebacker for the Lions?”

  “That’s Butch. Jared represented Butch’s ex wife, Sunny, in a suit over their divorce settlement. He got their pre-nuptial agreement voided on a technicality and Sunny wound up with half of everything. Fourteen million for a six-year marriage.”

  “Wow. I’m guessing Butch is unhappy?”

  “He threatened, and I quote, to ‘tear Jared’s head off and cram it up his ass’ during a deposition. Looked angry enough to do it too. Naturally, Jared got the blowup on video. Butch’s lawyers settled the same day. But there’s more. Jared and Sunny Lockhart …”

  “Have been celebrating?”

  “Banging his clients was almost a ritual with Jared,” Lehman sighed. “And Sunny lives in Brookside. Jared may have been coming from her place last night.”

  “Is Butch Lockhart aware of their relationship?”

  “I would assume so. Jared and Sunny haven’t been subtle about it.”

  “Noted,” Doyle nodded. “Who else?”

  “He recently brokered a deal for the Ferguson family. The three sons wanted to sell the family farm, the father didn’t. Jared managed to get the old man declared incompetent. Mr. Ferguson threatened to kill him in open court, which pretty much clinched the case. Personally, I think the old man was dead serious.”

  “We’ll look into that. Any others?”

  Lehman hesitated, thinking. “Jared had a divorce case slated for final hearings next week. Emil and Rosie Reiser. They own the Lone Pine Boatworks on Point Lucien.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “There’s some … friction over the timing of the closing. Emil Reiser bought the boat yard ten years ago, built it up, married a local girl. They’re splitting up and cashing out, but their daughter is very ill. Emil wanted to put everything on hold, but Jared has a buyer lined up who won’t wait. The wife wants out immediately. Jared promised to make it happen.”

  “How?”

  “I’m sorry, but that definitely falls under attorney/client privilege.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something, counselor?”

  “We both know the rules, Sergeant. I’ve already said more than I should.”

  “Fair enough. Lockhart, Ferguson, and Reiser are on the list. Who else?”

  “Those are the top three. I’ll scan through Jared’s files, and flag any others that seem problematic.”

  “What about Bannan’s wife? She said they’re divorcing. Amicably?”

  “No divorce is amicable, but they’re both professional people. The discussions were very chilly, but civil. I’m handling—was handling—the paperwork for them.”

  “For both parties?” Doyle asked, surprised. “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “The only dispute was the terms of the settlement, and they hammered those out in meetings that I refereed. We wrapped it up last week.”

  “To everyone’s satisfaction?”

  “Jared was certainly satisfied. Lauren’s harder to read. Jared and I have been friends since college. I could tell you the juicy details on every girlfriend he ever had, up to and including Sunny Lockhart. But I can’t tell you a thing about his wife. He never talked about her. I do know that a few years ago, they had … a serious problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “That I truly don’t know. But Jared had a very successful practice downstate, and we didn’t recruit him, he called me up out of the blue. Said he wanted to make a fresh start.”

 
“Trying to save his marriage?”

  “Jared never took marriage all that seriously.”

  “How seriously did his wife take it? Should we be looking at her? Or a boyfriend?”

  “Can’t help you there, Sergeant. As I said, I simply don’t know the lady well. I was surprised when I met her. She’s a handsome woman but not Jared’s type at all. He liked them hot, blonde, and bubbly and Lauren’s the opposite. Cool, intelligent, and very private. I’ve seen more of her during the settlement conferences than I did the whole time they … sweet Jesus.”

  “What?”

  “Their settlement isn’t finalized,” Lehman frowned. “We ironed out the details but nothing’s been signed or witnessed.”

  “So? What’s the problem?”

  “It’s void. All of it, even Jared’s new will. As things stand, Lauren’s still his wife and sole heir. She gets everything.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “I really shouldn’t—”

  “Just a ballpark figure. Please.”

  “Very well. Property and investments would be … roughly two and a half mil. And Jared had a substantial life insurance policy. I’d put the total estate in the neighborhood of five million.”

  “Nice neighborhood,” Doyle whistled.

  “I’m afraid that’s really all I can tell you for the moment,” Lehman said, rising. “I’ll fax you the information on any problem clients by the end of business today.”

  “I’d appreciate it, counselor. About Bannan’s death being a possible homicide? That stays between us.”

  “God. I don’t even like to think about it, let alone tell anyone else.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Lehman. I’m sorry about your partner.”

  “So am I, Sergeant,” Lehman said, shaking his head glumly. “So am I.”

  Zina was waiting for Doyle on the sidewalk. “What’d you get?” she asked, falling into step as they headed for the SUV.

  “A lot. Bannan was having an affair with Sunny Lockhart and half of his other clients, his life’s been threatened at least twice recently, and his widow stands to inherit five million. How’d you make out with the receptionist?”

  “Same basic story. Bannan wasn’t doing her but he certainly could have. He was a killer negotiator who loved ticking off the opposition. He also got into a major shouting match with his partner last week.”

  “With Lehman? About what?”

  “The receptionist wasn’t sure, those flashy glass offices may look wide open but they’re soundproof. The Reisers had just left, and Mrs. Bannan was waiting in reception. The argument could have been about either of them.”

  “Or something else altogether.”

  “Whatever it was, she said Bannan and Lehman were shouting loud enough to rattle the glass.”

  “Too bad they didn’t break it. What else?”

  “Bannan’s clients loved him, in every sense of the word, especially the ladies. I’m feeling a little wistful that he never gave me a call.”

  “You hate lawyers.”

  “Only defense lawyers. What’s next?”

  “Let’s take the Lockharts separately, before they have time to cross-check their stories. I’ll charm Sunny, you dazzle Butch.”

  “Can’t I just beat it out of him?” Zina said. “The Lions sucked when Lockhart played for ’em.”

  “You’re kidding?” Butch Lockhart grinned hugely, not bothering to conceal his delight. “That mouthy sumbitch is dead? For sure?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Zina said, eyeing him curiously. They were in Lockhart’s office, a glass cubicle five steps up from the showroom floor that overlooked a gleaming row of Cadillacs that stretched the length of a football field. Lockhart loomed even larger than his playing days, fifty pounds heavier now, a behemoth in a tailored silk suit, tinted glasses, tinted dark hair. A smile too perfect to be real.

  “What kind of a car was he driving?” Lockhart asked.

  “A Mercedes roadster.”

  “Better and better. A smart-ass yuppie buys it in his Kraut car. If he’d been driving a Caddy, he could’ve survived the accident.”

  “Actually, we don’t think it was an accident,” Mr. Lockhart. He was clipped by a hit and run driver. Would you mind telling me your whereabouts between ten and midnight, last night?”

  Lockhart stared at her, blinking, as the question penetrated his bullet skull. “Whoa, wait a minute, Shorty. Why ask me? What the hell, you think I killed him?”

  “You did threaten to tear Mr. Bannan’s head off in front of witnesses—”

  “Maybe I would have, if I’d run into him in a bar after I’d had a few. But I didn’t. And if I wanted him dead, I wouldn’t need a car to do it. It’s bad enough I had to take crap from that punk while he was alive, I’ll be damned if I’ll take any more now that he’s toast. Especially from some backwoods taco bender. Get the hell out of my office.”

  “Actually, I’m not Latin, sir, I’m Native American,” Zina said, rising. “Anishnabeg. And you’re not required to answer questions without an attorney. No problem, I’ll be happy to clear your name another way. How many red Cadillacs do you have in stock.”

  “Red? What are you talking about?”

  “The vehicle that struck Mr. Bannan’s car left red paint scrapes on his door. I can just scrape paint samples from every red vehicle on your lot, then ship ’em to Lansing to see if any of them match. I’m sure your body shop can touch up the scratches, good as new.”

  “Touch ’em up?” Butch echoed, standing up, towering over her. “Look, you little beaner—” He broke off, staring at the gleaming blade of the boot knife Zina slid out of her ankle sheath.

  “I see two red Caddies out on your showroom floor,” she continued calmly. “I’ll just scrape some paint samples on my way out. Unless you’d like to be the sweet guy I know you really are, and tell me where the hell you were last night. Mr. Lockhart. Sir.”

  “He was banging his new girlfriend,” Zina sighed, dropping into the chair at her desk. “A high school cheerleader, no less.” They were in the Mackie Law Enforcement Center, a brown brick blockhouse just outside Valhalla, named for a trooper killed by a psycho survivalist during a routine traffic stop.

  Covering a five-county area, “the House” is shared by Valhalla P.D., the Sheriff’s Department, and the Joint Investigative Unit. Amicably, for the most part.

  “How old is the girl?”

  “Eighteen. Street legal but just barely. She confirmed Lockhart’s story. I politely suggested she might want to try dating guys her own age. She told me to stick my advice in the trunk of her brand-new Escalade. Paid-up lease, thirty-six months.”

  “She’s eighteen and he’s what? Forty?”

  “Men are pond scum. I may have to switch to girls. What’d you get from Lockhart’s ex?”

  “Bannan was with her last night. They ate a late dinner, then thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. She fell asleep afterward. Her best guess is, he bailed out sometime after eleven. She has no alibi, but no motive either. He made her rich and she was in love with the guy.”

  “Or in heat,” Zee said. “Scratch both Lockharts then, who does that leave?”

  “Old man Ferguson can’t be too happy about being declared incompetent. And the Reisers, who have some kind of a beef over their scheduling. Plus pretty much everybody Jared Bannan ever met. The guy loved ticking people off.”

  “You’re forgetting the widow. Five mil’s a helluva motive, Doyle, and she definitely ducked some of our questions.”

  “Lehman said their relationship was pretty chilly. What did you make of her?”

  “Same as you. She’s smart, has great legs, and she’s about to have five mil in the bank. Hey, maybe I will switch to girls. You want me to reinterview her while you run down Ferguson?”

  “No, let’s try the Reisers first. If we hurry, we can get there before the boatworks closes for the day.”

  The Lone Pine Boat Yard was on the tip of Point Lucien
, an isolated peninsula jutting into Grand Traverse Bay. A narrow, two-lane blacktop is the only access.

  “Not much development out here,” Zina noted. “Can’t be many private shoreline sites left.”

  “Which should make the Reisers a bundle when they sell,” Doyle said, wheeling the cruiser into the small parking lot. Switching off the engine, they sat a moment, listening to the lonely lapping of the waves and the cries of the gulls.

  The yard wasn’t much to look at. The only buildings were a cabin, a curing shed stacked with drying lumber, and the boatworks itself, a long warehouse surrounded by a deck that extended out over the water, built of rough-hewn timbers culled from the surrounding forest.

  A young girl was huddled in a lawn chair at the end of the dock, fishing with a cane pole, an ancient Labrador retriever at her feet. The dog raised its head, growling a warning as the two officers approached.

  “Shush, Smokey,” the girl said. “Daaa-ad! The police are here. Have you been bad again?” Her impish grin faded into a spate of coughing. She was muffled in a heavy parka, though the temp on the point was a full ten degrees warmer than the inland hills. Lake effect. Her head was swathed in a turban against the cold, and to cover her baldness.

  “Something I can do for you folks?” Emil Reiser asked, stepping out to meet them. He was a bear of a man, dressed for blue-collar work, red and black checked flannel shirt, jeans, and cork boots. He needed a shave and his wild salt and pepper mane hung loosely to his shoulders. Two fingertips on his left hand were missing.

  “Don’t mind the dog, he’s harmless, mostly. Is this business or pleasure?”

  “It’s business, Mr. Reiser.”

  “Yeah? Buying a boat, are you? Cause that’s the only business I’m in.”

  “Actually, it’s about your wife’s attorney, Jared Bannan?”

  “Hell, what does that bastard—” Reiser broke off, glancing at his daughter, who was watching them intently. He flashed her a quick command in sign language and the girl turned away.