Noble Chase

by Michael Rudolph

  When Bob came into the apartment, he smiled warmly, handed her a bouquet of pink carnations, and shook her hand. Then he said how much he liked Clapton. With that, all her reservation, lawyerlike or otherwise, flew out the window and her natural exuberance took over. It continued to rise when she came out of the kitchen with a corkscrew for the wine, only to find him sitting in the middle of the couch with a contrite look on his face and a big blob of onion dip on his finger.

  “Oh, shit!” she said under her breath. “I forgot to put out the chips.”

  “It wasn’t a problem,” he said, licking his finger clean, “I started without them.”

  “Hang on a second. I have some in the kitchen.”

  “Perfect. I’ll uncork the wine in the meantime.”

  She handed him the corkscrew and went back into the kitchen. When she returned with the chips, he was pouring wine into the two glasses she had left on the table. She took the glass of wine he handed her. “I hope you like it, otherwise I have some vodka and some tequila in one of the cabinets.”

  “No, thanks. This is fine,” he said, and then added, “Cheers,” before taking a sip of the wine.

  “And to the job offer you want.”

  “Amen to that.” He took another sip while looking around the living room. “I like your apartment.”

  “Thanks. I finally put some effort into it this summer.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I used a bonus I got for winning a big real estate fraud case.” She looked at him for any reaction to her oblique reference to the appeal she had won for his father. If he caught the jab, he didn’t show it. She sat on the couch. “How’s it going with WKYN?”

  “I don’t know really. I only dropped off the tapes yesterday. I probably won’t hear from them for a few days, at least.”

  “The competition’s rough, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is, but that’s what makes working in New York the big time. The pressure to achieve here is incredible.”

  “Yes, but you know what, so are the rewards. I enjoy the competition.”

  “And the money?” His eyes appraised the Chagall lithograph on her wall along with the nineteenth-century primitives.

  “It’s one of the best ways to judge how well you’re playing the game. On the other hand, living in New York costs an arm and a leg, so it kind of offsets the bigger salaries we get paid here.”

  “I can see you like being a lawyer.”

  “I love it, and sometimes I even get to think I’m good at it.”

  “You’re lucky. Liking what you do best. What turns you on the most?” he asked.

  She thought about it for a minute, ignoring the innocent double entendre. “The trial work,” she finally answered. “It’s intellectually stimulating and it gives me the competition I used to get from athletics.”

  “An ex-jock. And a Republican, no doubt.”

  “Ex nothing.” She grinned while striking a pose and protested: “A tomboy, if you please, and a Republican, except on the abortion issue. Socially more of a liberal, though. And what about you? What makes you tick?”

  “Originally, I saw myself as a pro basketball player with an engineering degree to use afterwards. Then in college, I realized I wasn’t good enough to make it in the NBA.”

  “How tall are you, six four, six five?”

  “Six five, a little more, but MIT isn’t actually the proving ground for aspiring athletes.”

  “So what happened?”

  “After my junior year, I decided a degree in electrical engineering wasn’t for me either. I wanted a career in radio and I wanted to do something useful for the third-world nations. That’s why I volunteered to go to Zaire with the Peace Corps. I wanted to do good things and save the world.”

  “How was the Peace Corps?”

  “I enjoyed it, but it was an excuse to avoid getting on with my life. Like extending my childhood.”

  “But you didn’t think so then, when it counted. And anyhow, what’s so wrong with postponing the need to face the world for a while?”

  “I think now I was reacting to the way my father was before he ran out on us. He was consumed by the urge to make money at any cost and yet was always complaining that we never had enough. It controlled his whole life.”

  “Maybe he was overwhelmed by having a family to support,” she suggested.

  “So are a lot of guys.”

  “He reacted differently,” she said, not actually trying to be supportive of Sloane, but it had that effect on Bob anyway. She could see his temperature rising.

  “But he always blamed everyone else for his failures.”

  “It’s hard for some people to accept responsibility. I’m used to hearing clients blame the cruel world for their problems.”

  “And I suppose they just pick themselves up, like he did, and walk away from their family?”

  “Some do it physically, others do it emotionally.”

  “The result’s the same too. He left us when I was eleven and I felt like I had been discarded.”

  “Then he went ahead and died on you.” She was goading deliberately, testing. She wanted to know.

  “And the son of a bitch didn’t even call to say goodbye!” he erupted, and Beth saw his pain was deep. She was moved by its intensity and felt bad for having provoked him.

  “Now I’m the one who feels awful.” She was genuinely sorry, more so because of her motivation. “I didn’t know your father that well.”

  “No. I’m the one who’s sorry for getting carried away. I also laid it on you up in Providence. I hate whiners. It’s old news and he’s gone anyhow.” The emotion of the moment had passed. Despite his youthful sensitivity, he wasn’t one to dwell on self-pity.

  “We both have a lot of unwashed laundry. Both our fathers deserted us by dying. Only yours deserted you twice.”

  “I guess you could say that. Anyhow, it’s history and I’m here with you now and that makes me feel good.”

  “I’m glad. Me too.”

  “And that perfume you’re wearing is delicious.” He leaned over toward her, gently caressing her long blond hair with his fingers while emphasizing the extent of his pleasure with a deep inhalation of her scent.

  Her reaction to his touch changed their relationship forever. She had no idea what to say or where to take it. Clichés fought for control over her intellect. The touch of his hand on the back of her neck sent a shiver of pure ecstasy vibrating throughout her body, causing her to arch the nape of her neck to extend the sensation. She felt her mind go blank.

  Finally, intellect rebooted, and her head resumed control over her body. It was too soon for this to happen. She separated from him and stood up.

  “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!” she exclaimed, breathing hard. It was more of a gasp for air than a comment on society, but it did break the spell of the moment, and they both ended up laughing hysterically.

  She reached over to the cocktail table and filled their glasses with the last of the wine.

  “Just in time. I’m starving,” he said. “Let’s go eat.”

  “Good idea,” she said.

  Beth double-locked her apartment door as they left, and together they walked silently on the plush brown carpeting down the long hall to the bank of elevators that serviced her floor. While they were waiting for an elevator, he turned to her and, without any hesitation, touched her cheek and gave her a gentle kiss. No probing. Just his lips lingering softly on hers. And he tasted delicious.

  Beth was in her office reviewing the final draft of the Talcourt life insurance complaint. She signed the attorney’s verification at the end and handed it to Carmen. “Give it to one of the file room clerks to serve on MetLife tomorrow morning. Call up MetLife and ask them where he should go.”

  “Madison Avenue and Twenty-fifth Street. The first floor.”

  “You checked already?”

  “What do you think?” she answered triumphantly as she turned to walk out of Beth’s office.


  “Terrific. Good job. Take an extra minute or two for lunch today. You’ve earned it.”

  “Minute or two nothing. L and T’s having a sale on men’s clothing this week, so I’m going over there to pick out a birthday present for my husband. If I get sidetracked at the jewelry counter, I may be a little late.”

  “Enjoy yourself.”

  “Mr. Giles stopped by when you were in the back conference room. He said to tell you that if you don’t get your October billing in to the bookkeeper by tomorrow, you’re not going to get paid Friday.”

  “It’s all done.”

  “Oh, and Tim Flaherty from our malpractice carrier called you.”

  “Call him back for me now.”

  “Coming right up.” Carmen made the call and transferred it through to Beth in her office.

  “Hi, Tim,” she said when she picked up the phone. “Anything new in our case?”

  “This guy Charlie Chen from Taiwan has called me three times in the last two days trying to settle it.”

  “Same number?”

  “Yup—5.25 million.”

  “He’s out of his mind.”

  “Listen, Beth, when you consider the huge malpractice award possible after a trial, it might pay for your firm to consider a settlement no matter how small the risk of losing.”

  “What kind of figure are you talking about?”

  “Our risk assessment people have authorized me to offer Leung two million dollars just based upon our estimated cost of bringing the case to trial.”

  “Do they think we have any liability?”

  “Not really, but we all know that the weakest case has some nuisance value.”

  “I know that, Tim. Let me talk it over with my bosses and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Take your time. We can’t settle the case without your approval anyhow.”

  After she finished talking to Tim, she opened up the diary on her laptop, counted off twenty days, and made an entry on December 8 to remind her when the MetLife answer would be due. She didn’t care if their attorneys requested extra time, as long as they let her examine the MetLife file on Leonard Sloane, his life and his death.

  She stared at the open diary, her thoughts wandering for a change to her relationship with Bob, never forgetting that it rested on an undisclosed foundation—her effort to find the Jasco money, her number one priority. If that created an impenetrable obstacle to some future relationship between her and Bob, so be it. There were more important things in her life right now. She would have to keep her needs and feelings in sync with her goals.

  Dieter Rheinhartz spent the morning at Chase Bank searching for a fresh lead. He had asked for the meeting when the Jasco money trail disappeared into a morass of red tape and privacy laws in Zurich. For two hours, the bank’s security officers repeatedly assured him they had every intention of being cooperative, but their actions sought only to cover their corporate rear end. As far as they were concerned, Chase had followed regulations. They were in the clear and weren’t going to provide Rheinhartz with any information that might expose them to liability as Erica Crossland’s employer.

  On his way out of the meeting, he was approached in the hallway by Jim Connally, Chase’s vice president in charge of security.

  “Sorry we couldn’t be of more help, Dieter.”

  “I hoped that Chase would be more interested in recovering the money.”

  “We are, but our legal department is more concerned about our potential liability to Leung.”

  “Has he started suit?”

  “I can’t really discuss that. Come on, though, I’ll walk you down to the elevator.”

  “By the way, congratulations on your promotion to VP security.”

  “You helped me get that. You know, I never really had a chance to thank you for that lead you gave me in London last year. It saved our international division a bundle.”

  “Glad I could help, Jim. Fraud prevention makes banking safer for everyone.”

  “I agree. By the way, did you have any luck tracking the Jasco money to the Rhode Island Hospital Trust in Providence?”

  The question was asked just as the elevator doors closed, and everything about it surprised Rheinhartz. In the first place, he hadn’t been to that bank at all; and in the second place, it hadn’t been mentioned in any of the documents he had inspected. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that it was Jim’s way of giving him some information without violating instructions from Chase’s legal department.

  In any event, it was the only new lead he had, and tomorrow was an open day on his schedule. If he went right up to Providence, he might get there early enough to visit the Hospital Trust today. It would also give him another opportunity to visit Talcourt.

  The Metro-North train made it to Stamford in time for him to connect with the Amtrak train for Providence. He called up the chief of security at the Rhode Island Hospital Trust and arranged to meet with him between four and five p.m. By the time Amtrak pulled into New Haven, Rheinhartz was dropping in and out of a light sleep frequently interrupted by the pain in his left arm.

  When he arrived at the bank, the chief of security asked a data-processing clerk to check for any Leonard Sloane accounts, and they were able to locate one. Before he left the bank, Rheinhartz successfully identified two possible transfers from that account to banks down in Caracas.

  With photocopies of the account tucked away, Rheinhartz took a cab over to WFEX-FM on the chance Talcourt would be there, but he learned Bob wasn’t due until that evening. He left a message for him with Justin and went back out to the Hotel Providence on Mathewson, where he was staying for the night.

  Tomorrow morning, he’d take a limousine up to Boston and catch a flight from there to Caracas. The dates and amounts of the transfers were close enough to make investigation worthwhile.

  After checking in at the hotel, he asked the desk clerk for a place to have dinner and was given an assortment of menus from nearby restaurants to look at. He ended up at a restaurant over on Cushing Street. When the taxi dropped him back at the hotel after dinner, he went up to his room, carefully hung up his suit in the closet and sat down at the small round table by the telephone.

  He first called the radio station, asking for Talcourt, but it was Talcourt who answered the phone.

  “Mr. Talcourt, this is Fritz Ehrenwald.” It was the name he remembered using. “We met when I came to see you about your father’s insurance policy.”

  “You’re the guy from MetLife.”

  “Actually, I am an independent claims adjuster. Mr. Talcourt, I wonder if I could see you tomorrow morning about your claim.”

  “There’s no point in doing that. I’ve turned the matter over to a lawyer in New York.”

  “Would you mind telling me who he is?”

  “It’s a she. Beth Swahn at Wilcox, Swahn and Giles. If you give me your number, I’ll pass it along to her.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” he said abruptly. “Sorry to have troubled you.”

  Rheinhartz hung up the phone and reached into his leather bag for his cellphone to call C. K. Leung in Taipei.

  “Good morning,” Leung said as he picked up the phone.

  “Mr. Leung? This is Dieter Rheinhartz.”

  “Yes, Herr Rheinhartz.”

  “I am in Providence, Rhode Island. I have some information for you.”

  “What have you learned?”

  “It is likely that a wire transfer of your money went from the Rhode Island Hospital Trust here in Providence to one of two banks in Caracas.”

  “Why Providence?”

  “I do not know that yet. It might have something to do with the fact that Sloane has a son here.”

  “That’s very interesting. When will you be leaving for Venezuela?” Leung was confident that Rheinhartz was going. He only wanted to know when.

  “I’ll go to Boston tomorrow morning and fly to Caracas from there.”

  “Call me when you have som
ething to report. The matter is becoming quite urgent.”

  “I have instructed my people to give it full time and effort. And one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I found out that Sloane’s son has started suit against Metropolitan Life Insurance Company to collect on a small policy it issued on Sloane’s life.”

  “How does that concern us?”

  “His attorney is Elisabeth Swahn at Wilcox, Swahn and Giles in New York….” This time, Rheinhartz sensed a definite pause in the conversation.

  “It doesn’t concern us,” Leung finally answered. He then hung up.

  Rheinhartz still had one call to make. He opened the stocked bar next to the triple dresser, took a glass from the bathroom, and poured a Scotch for himself. Then he called Clifford Giles to bring him up-to-date on his search for the missing funds.

  —

  Contrary to his statement to Rheinhartz, Leung was indeed interested in the information about the insurance litigation. “Concerned” would be a better word to describe it. Immediately after hanging up with Rheinhartz, C.K. called Martin in San Francisco and passed on the news.

  “I told you so!” his brother exclaimed. “I knew the attorney was in on it.”

  “I think you may be right.”

  “If she’s working for Sloane’s son now, she was in it with Sloane from the beginning and that means she has our bank codes.”

  “I think you’re right about that too.”

  “I’ll call Eddie and catch the red-eye to New York tonight. What about you?”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “We only have three weeks left, and our Arab partners are going to be very upset if there is any delay in payment.”

  “I will call the attorney tomorrow and give it one last try.”

  When C.K. surprised her with a call the following morning, Beth was ambivalent about taking it. Then she decided that nothing could be gained by ducking him, so she picked up the phone.

  C.K., sensing her hesitation, got right to the point: “I’m in New York for a few days and want to resolve the Sloane matter while I’m here.”