by Nancy Geary
“And David Ellery is going to run it?”
“David . . . David.” He seemed to gargle the name. “Ellery and I go way back,” he suggested as if that were an endorsement.
“You’re the chairman of the nominating committee that selected him?”
“I am.”
“But Dr. Reese was your first choice?”
He looked surprised, then stared down at his thick knuckles. “That’s right. Morgan was our top pick. She is . . . she was an amazingly gifted doctor. What happened is a great tragedy.”
“How well did you know her?”
“I hardly knew her except by reputation when she submitted her application. She was one of the first to throw her name in the ring. We—by that I mean members of my committee—interviewed her extensively. We interviewed her colleagues and personal references as well.”
“Do you happen to remember who those were?”
“Hmmm.” He pulled a small walkie-talkie from his pocket, pushed a button, and started to talk to his assistant. “Bring me the Wilder file on Reese. ASAP.” Then he turned back to Lucy and Jack. “I talked to hundreds of people during this process. The file will refresh my recollection.”
“And you were asked to be in charge of this selection because of the relationship between the Center and AmeriMed?”
He nodded. “That’s right. This was a huge investment on our part. Even in the best scenarios, we won’t see a return on that for a long time. My board thought the only prudent way to proceed was to make sure we had someone we could trust running the place. We can have all the legal contracts in the world, but without a committed director, it would all fall apart.”
“Aside from Ellery and Reese, who else applied?” Lucy asked.
“Who didn’t apply is the easier question. I think everyone who’d ever gone to medical school submitted an application. But we were pretty clear on what we wanted which streamlined the process considerably.”
“What was that?”
“Prominence in both the medical and business communities. Good contacts at the FDA, plenty of research credentials, excellent social skills, a history of successful fund-raising, . . . and . . . and . . . How shall I put this?”
Lucy and Jack leaned forward simultaneously.
“Little personal life.”
“What?”
Dixon looked uncomfortable. “This probably doesn’t sound right, but starting a hospital is not a family-friendly occupation. There are long days, sometimes even overnight without a break, business dinners virtually seven times a week, extensive travel, plus all the stress of actually overseeing the treatment of severely ill patients. You can’t have a spouse or children clamoring for time. You can’t want to take out your sailboat or ride your horse. The person has to be one hundred twenty-five percent—no, make that two hundred percent—committed. Our Center has to be the center of the universe or it isn’t going to get off the ground.”
Just then the door opened. Summer stepped inside. She laid a thick Redwell folder on the table in front of her boss. Without acknowledging her presence, Dixon opened it and thumbed through the labeled files within. He removed one, glanced at it, and raised his eyebrows. “Morgan’s personal references, here we are: Betty Graham, Rodman Haverill, and William Herbert, Esquire. The woman is her secretary, Haverill’s her ex, and Herbert’s listed as a friend.”
Lucy struggled to suppress her surprise. Why had Archer’s father been on this list? “Did you speak to these references?”
“I’ve known Rod Haverill for decades. I figured she had to be a first-rate politician. The man’s got a worse temper than my own. To get a divorce and be amicable rarely happens under the best of circumstances. To get a divorce and list your ex as a character reference—never.” He flipped some additional pages. “Looks like there’s a report of an interview with Graham. It indicates Morgan was a great person to work for, polite, efficient, not volatile, fair. We want that. This staff is being handpicked and we need someone who can work well with subordinates.” He pulled out a single typewritten page and passed it across the table to the detectives. “And Herbert . . . Herbert . . . what did he say?” He looked up. “I don’t see anything from him.”
Lucy scribbled in her spiral notepad. Then she asked, “Why did you initially pick Morgan over David Ellery?”
He leaned back and rested his clasped hands on his chest. “Let me be blunt. The gal had everything. Her professional credentials couldn’t be matched. She was a devoted therapist. She knew everyone in the government, everyone in academia. She had her pulse on research. Plus she was a master at working a crowd. Could get people eating out of the palm of her hand, so to speak. That she was a sight for sore eyes didn’t hurt. And she was alone, past childbearing years, and unmarried. Plus there was an unfortunate occurrence toward the end of the process that we thought made Reese preferable to Ellery.”
“Which was Foster Herbert’s suicide?”
Dixon nodded, obviously not fazed by Jack’s remark. “Bad press. Pure and simple.”
“So why’d you decide that didn’t matter after Reese’s death?”
He turned, glancing outside to the fields beyond. “This may sound crude, but a dead kid from six months ago paled in comparison with the media frenzy over her murder. Nobody was going to spend a lot of time digging up dirt on Ellery. There wouldn’t be the print space or the journalistic energy. We thought we could slip him through. It was a calculated risk.”
“Jesus,” Jack said in disgust.
Dixon whipped around to glare at Jack. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to build a pharmaceutical company? The Wilder Center is AmeriMed’s chance to join the leagues of the multibillion-dollar conglomerates. You and your partner, well, your salaries will keep coming, mediocre performance or not. You can thank the taxpayers of our great state for that. In my business, mistakes mean heads roll.”
“Unfortunately, that’s what brought us here,” Jack said facetiously as he got up from the table and walked over to the windows. “Were you aware that Reese attempted suicide?”
Dixon paused before answering. “I was. But she explained it was during her residency and that it had been an impulsive response to a personal matter. Since that time, she’d dealt with whatever problems she’d had. She assured us of that. Plus the gal always wore long sleeves around us so who was to know?”
“Why don’t you share whatever scheme you and Ellery concocted last Saturday,” Lucy pressed, pointing at Dixon’s tie. “The Rabbit Club.” He and every other member had worn the same tie in the group portraits that adorned the clubhouse walls.
Dixon instinctively reached for his throat and adjusted his collar pin.
“Dr. Ellery came as your guest?” she asked.
He shifted in his seat, leaning away from the table. “He knew almost everyone there, but I believe I did invite him as my guest—technically. He came in his own car.”
“And you were one of the last to leave?”
His jaw moved ever so slightly back and forth as he ground his teeth. “A group of us stayed late, too late,” he offered, chuckling nervously. “Ellery, myself, a guy named Tripp Nichols. He works here—a vice president in sales. Our sniff game ended when our fourth left, but we stayed. We were up in the game room on the second floor. I think the beverage of choice was Drambuie by that point. And then Reese showed up, if that’s what you’re wanting to talk about.”
“The club doesn’t allow women.”
“We’re not that bad, Detective. And from the looks of her that night, Reese wasn’t about to be deterred by something as inconsequential as a gentlemen’s rule.”
“So what happened?”
Dixon took a deep breath and looked back and forth between the detectives. Watching him, Lucy assumed he was trying to buy time. For a confident man, appearing without counsel, he was increasingly reticent, deliberate in his answers. She wondered exactly what it was that he was hiding.
“So? Are you going to tell us about Saturd
ay, or would you rather talk at the precinct?” Jack interrupted his memories.
Dixon cleared his throat. “Morgan did come to the club. She was upset, possibly inebriated, and needed to speak to Tripp about a personal matter. There seemed to be another women involved, if you know what I mean. They stepped outside. David and I decided to call it a night. Even we know when enough is enough.”
“Was Tripp still at the club when you left?”
“Yes, or at least I assume so. His car was still in the parking lot, but there was no sign of him.”
“Have you seen or spoken to Tripp since?”
He paused.
“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we can get our answers from telephone logs.”
“When I heard Reese was dead, I called him on Sunday night. He was pretty shaken up about the news. He’d seen it on television. He explained that they’d had a disagreement earlier in the week, but was pretty vague, which confirmed my suspicion that he’d had something going on with one of her friends. And that kind of information I don’t care to know, especially about my employees. I’m a family man.” He forced a smile.
“Have you any idea who that person might be—the one he might be involved with?”
“He mentioned a gal named Avery, but I can’t give you more than that. As I said before, that’s the kind of information that I don’t need or want to know.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood.
“Did you see anything as you were leaving? A car accident?” Lucy asked.
“No. Nothing. I came straight home and fell into bed. End of story. You can check with my wife on that one.”
“One last thing,” she said, standing. “Is Tripp here at work today?”
“No. He has taken the week off. He said he needed to deal with some urgent family matters. Under the circumstances, I thought that was a good idea.”
10:36 a.m.
Lucy’s cell phone rang as she and Jack walked across the parking lot. It was Nick Santoros. “O’Malley, are you with Harper?”
“Yeah. He’s right here.”
“First tell him either his cell phone’s off or the battery died. I couldn’t get through.”
“Well, you got me.”
“We got the subpoenaed records from BMTC.”
“And?”
“Tripp Nichols opened a trust account less than a week ago with two hundred fifty thousand dollars in it for the benefit of Avery Herbert. Deposited a cashier’s check. He gave his business address on the account.”
“The company is called AmeriMed. I’m at its office complex now,” she replied. “Nichols is a senior VP.” She quickly summarized their meeting with the company chairman. “An affair between an older married man and her underage daughter couldn’t have been a mother’s dream. Apparently he was willing to pay dearly to buy them both off.”
“So what can we do with the connection between Nichols and Avery?”
“How about apply some pressure?” she responded. “And I’d say the best contender is a charge of statutory sexual assault.”
26
3:00 p.m.
Leedes, Collin, and Wilkes had a dedicated elevator bank. Stepping into one of six cars, Jack pushed the lighted button for the seventeenth floor, next to which was a tiny brass plaque engraved MAIN RECEPTION. He and Lucy stood side by side, hands crossed in front of them, staring at the row of numbers that lit up one by one above the elevator door. Neither said a word. The universal decorum. Lucy could still hear her third-grade teacher instructing her classmates, as they stood crowded together in the elevator at the Museum of Science. “Stand quiet and face front. No talking.”
A “ding” signaled that they had arrived at their destination. Stepping out, they saw a Hispanic woman wearing a floral-print blouse seated behind a massive circular desk. Her black hair was braided into cornrows.
Lucy flashed her badge. “We’re here to see William Herbert.”
Long purple fingernails with silver stars on each tip dialed the extension. “Please advise Mr. Herbert that there are two policemen here to see him,” she said into the speakerphone after a female voice answered the line.
“Did you say police?”
“I did.”
“What next?” the woman replied, apparently to herself.
The receptionist looked up. “You can take a seat. He’ll be with you in just a moment, I’m sure.” She smiled without opening her mouth.
William Herbert approached from an internal circular staircase and walked briskly toward them. He was undeniably handsome with strong features, large walnut-brown eyes, and thick brown hair. A quick check of his driving record had revealed he was forty-nine, but he could pass for a collegian in his khaki suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. Several steps behind him came an older man with a shock of white hair, a black suit, black silk shirt, and black tie.
“I’m Bill Herbert.” He extended a hand. “This is my partner Carson Leedes.”
“We’ve met before,” Jack said.
“What can we help you with?” Carson asked in a heavy Southern drawl.
“Not you, Leedes. We need to ask Bill here some questions about Dr. Morgan Reese. You don’t mind if I call you Bill, now, do you?”
Leedes stepped between Jack and Bill, blocking either’s view of the other. “I am the managing partner of this firm. If you do not explain the basis of your questions, I’ll have Security see you out. Are you intending to advise Mr. Herbert of his rights?”
“Now why would you ever jump to that conclusion?” Jack replied. “This is hardly a custodial interrogation. He’s not a suspect . . . yet.”
“We were hoping he could answer some questions for us. It shouldn’t take long,” Lucy added. Her authority and jurisdiction exceeded that of any private security force, but she also didn’t want to precipitate a confrontation. They’d yet to get a single piece of relevant information. Carson’s stare remained fixed on Jack.
Turning to the receptionist, Bill asked, “Louise, can you see if conference room B is empty?”
She flipped open a black leather book. “Mr. Lyons has it reserved for an associates’ committee meeting. But that doesn’t start until four.”
“Mark us down from now until then,” Bill instructed. “I presume that will give us enough time.”
“What client number should I use?” she asked.
“Uh . . . just charge it to firm business.”
“Use zero five six six one,” Leedes bellowed. “This is obviously a Reese matter.”
Bill looked startled, no doubt by the thought of billing a murder victim’s estate.
“Follow him,” Leedes directed.
The attorney offices lined the right side of the long corridor. Secretarial stations filled the internal side opposite. Carson took up the rear as Bill led the way. Lucy glanced in at the masses of papers piled atop each desk, bookcases filled to overflowing with files and thick tomes, gym bags thrown in a corner, and personalized screen savers floating across computer monitors. Almost everyone was on the telephone. It reminded Lucy to turn her cell phone off. She didn’t want to be interrupted.
“This is the real estate department. I’m a partner in corporate, but I thought I’d spare you the stairs.” He held a door open.
“I didn’t know we looked that feeble,” Lucy said.
Carson stayed behind to use the telephone at an empty secretarial station. She, Jack, and Bill stepped into a room with two picture windows that looked directly out at the blue glass facade of One Liberty Place. The sixty-story mixed-use complex had forever changed the skyline of downtown Philadelphia, and virtually all of the Roundhouse employees who had known the city preconstruction had strong views on the Art Deco skyscraper and its slightly shorter twin.
Bill followed their stare. “It dwarfs the rest of us. But this department did a good part of the legal work, so the real estate guys view it as a trophy.”
“Leave it to lawyers to violate a gentlemen’s agreement,” Jack remarked, refer
ring to the fact that Liberty Place was the first building to exceed the height of the hat worn by William Penn in the statue atop City Hall. Prior to 1987, a tacit understanding limited new development to the height of that hat. Now, apparently, nobody cared.
“Somebody had to do it,” Carson said, making his entrance. “And somebody had to get rich off it, too.” He reached in the middle of the table for a black porcelain mug embossed with the firm’s letterhead, and poured water from a stainless carafe. “I’m glad at least the second somebody was me.” Then he pulled out a chair and sat with his back turned slightly away from the table.
“Well, how can I help?” Bill indicated for them to take seats, too. “I read about her murder in the paper, but other than that—”
“Why don’t you tell us how you knew her?” Lucy asked, trying to ignore Carson’s presence. Aside from his Darth Vader costume, there was something about him that appeared ominous, as if he were breathing more than his fair share of oxygen.
“I didn’t . . . or I should say, I didn’t know her well.”
“You were one of only three personal references on an application she submitted for a job as director of a new psychiatric hospital. How do you explain that?”
The fabric of the upholstered chair itched through Bill’s suit, and he felt hot. Anxiety seeped into his skin through osmosis. He looked at the eager faces of the detectives, then at Carson’s scornful expression. He got up, walked over to the window, and looked down at the street seventeen stories below where ant-size people scurried along. He wanted to be one of them, hurrying anywhere away from here.