The Charity

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  The television was clicked off. The men in the room began to move freely again. Magnus sat back and smiled. He looked at the half-grinning figure standing toward the back of the room. “Well done. As always.” He hoisted himself out of his chair and indicated that he wanted to speak. The room fell silent.

  “I trust we all understand the painful circumstances under which our former comrade fell. For those of you who have not seen the tape, please watch the screen.”

  On command, the screen popped to life once again. This time, it was filled with an image of a young woman with red hair sitting at a table in a hotel room surrounded by files. The image was fuzzy and grainy from the poor quality surveillance camera used. The sound was equally as poor. The image dashed about wildly on the screen as the video was fast-forwarded. “We’ve all seen this. There. That’s what you need to see.” Again, the picture was difficult to see, but the torture and pain of the man were clear. Coogan pleaded for mercy and was granted none. Testicles of the men watching the death involuntarily recoiled.

  Magnus continued. “This is no longer a matter my trusted aide can handle alone. Prior to the resurrection of the woman, we were confident that we did not leave any loose ends. Now, we must retrace our steps from her perspective. We need your help on this. Use all of your contacts. Not one document is to surface, and not one conversation should be had that we have not discussed and approved the content of first. We need to clean every contact we ever had with Worldwind Farm. You know what to do.”

  Dry coughs forced him to pause. The spasm lasted longer than he expected. Concerned looks subtly exchanged among the men. He was too old and tired for this. Retirement sounded better all the time. But who would be his successor? He had followed in his father’s shoes, right? The thought caused him to sit down again.

  “We don’t have any more time for mistakes. Dismissed.”

  The Essex County Registry of Deeds in Salem was bustling with attorneys, clerks and paralegals conducting research of one kind or another. Rows of bookcases held huge, dusty volumes containing the official records of towns along Massachusetts’ North Shore. The leather bound books contained copies of titles for property transactions, listed by grantor or grantee, and other documents such as mortgages, trusts, tax liens and the like. It was a system devised nearly two centuries earlier that was now overwhelmed with the transaction-crazed population of the twentieth century. Some of the volumes on the shelves contained documents more than two hundred years old. The smell of their musty pages mingled with stale nicotine escaping from the yellowed smoking area at the back of the cavernous hall.

  Shea was frustrated with the painstaking manual work he had to do to find his answers. The information contained in the books was slowly being converted to a computerized database, but it still contained insufficient information for his purposes. He had to work fast. Attending the funeral that morning had put him behind schedule. There was no sense of loss for his former partner. He merely thought he had gotten what he had asked for all along. Well, maybe not quite that brutal. It must have taken Coogan a couple of hours to die. Shea swallowed hard. He felt the seconds tick away. He did not have much time.

  He traced the land deeds of Wyeth’s Worldwind Farm. As he suspected, it was owned by a trust with a very familiar name. Unity Green Trust was a name on other wire money transfers he followed on past cases. This trust came into possession of the land nearly five years ago. He made a note to himself to follow the documents to the point of origin for the trust. He knew he would only find a trail of corporations with hired third parties as their registered agents. It would take a while to track down the real people behind the trust. He knew there would be a connection to Magnus Connaught.

  Unity Green Trust purchased the land from the Wyeth Family Trust for a decent sum of money. The documents listed a small local law firm as executors for the Wyeth Trust. Shea made a note of the name and address listed. Talking to the executors might be helpful because they act and conduct all business on the trust’s behalf. He made a few attempts to trace all sales out of the Unity Green Trust. The land was subdivided and sold in parcels. The documents even showed that they acted as developer and property manager. In an exclusive town like Hamilton, property that prime does not come on the market often. It was the right time and place. Unity Green made an incredible amount of money on the place.

  Grabbing copies of the deeds and any trust documents he found, he filled a yellow legal pad with dates, transaction types, amounts, and names. The property transfers gave him sufficient information to go on for tracing funds and would help him come up with some good connections. He needed to find a better place to review what he found before he paid a visit to the Wyeth’s attorney and packed up his papers.

  Keeping along the shore, he drove out of Salem heading north, and eventually spotted a small clam shack that offered privacy and the promise of a good greasy meal of fried clams, French fries and haddock. That fare and a typical watery beer sounded perfect.

  He ordered his food and settled into the sticky booth at the far end, away from the door. Wearing old jeans and a sweater, he felt comfortable in this place. It was like hundreds of other hole-in-the-wall places that dotted the Massachusetts coastline. His meal was plopped down on the table with enough force to jar the fried brown food from its paper plates and plastic baskets. The waitress snarled at him for the inconvenience of doing her job.

  The review of the Wyeth’s Worldwind Farm’s deeds showed that nothing was unusual when Jim Wyeth purchased the farm from a local Hamilton family over forty years ago. The next transaction was twelve years later when the property was placed into the Wyeth Family Trust. Shea noted that Jessica was about twenty-nine years old now and figured they must have been doing some estate planning after the Wyeths started a family. It was a fairly common move for wealthy families to protect their assets by setting up trusts and nothing on the surface of the transactions concerned him.

  A mortgage was discharged shortly thereafter. That told Shea the farm must have been making big bucks to be loan-free. No additional mortgages or liens could be found. The Wyeth’s farm must have continued to be profitable, but Shea was interested by the amount they must have earned in a short period. He jotted down some more notes to himself to look at the money flow around the farm. He returned his attention to the trust document itself.

  It was pretty much what he expected to see. The trust was created as an income-sheltering device and as a way to provide for any children the Wyeths may have in the event of their untimely deaths. The trust referred to several amendments, and he looked at each one in succession. Most of the amendments he looked at were the typical filings to keep the entity legal. In one, he learned that the second Wyeth girl must have been disabled or something because additional provisions were made for her ongoing care. The final amendment caught his attention the most.

  This amendment stated that if something were to happen to Jessica Wyeth that the trust was to stay intact and not be disbursed for a period of twenty-one years after her death. It was executed by Bridget Heinchon Harvey who was then the legal guardian for her niece when Jessica would have been in her early teens. Why would someone want to make sure nothing happened to the money in the trust for such a long time after the last beneficiary of the trust died? The only reason that made sense was to make her death a lot less attractive to anyone seeking fortune. He jotted down the dates of the amendments. If Jessica survived this whole ordeal, she would emerge a wealthy woman.

  He wolfed down the rest of his oily fried fare and made a quick check using the clam shack’s phone book to see if the trust’s attorney was still in the same location. He was, so Shea traveled westward. He needed to see the files their attorney would have on additional instructions as the executor.

  Shea pulled up in front of an old clapboard building that was at the end of a long street of nearly empty stores. The sides of the law office’s building were in desperate need of
a fresh coat of paint, and large flakes of faded green paint on the trim threatened to launch themselves into the breeze at any moment. He walked onto the porch and felt the soggy rotted wood give slightly under his weight. A faint light shone inside.

  The office was deserted. Green metal filing cabinets stood along one wall. Stacks of yellowed files littered what would have been the receptionist’s desk and floor. An ancient electric typewriter was perched on the desk. Its green vinyl dust cover, having served its purpose undisturbed for many years, supported a wealth of the fine grit. Shea poked around and kept himself unannounced.

  “What? Who’s there?” The voice came from the room with the light. A squeal of a desk chair punctuated his words followed by the clink of glass and the rolling of a desk drawer as it slid on its track.

  Shea walked forward. “Yeah. Hello. Sorry to disturb you.” He stopped in the doorway and looked at the figure of the disheveled attorney trying madly to pull himself together to greet his unexpected visitor. Shea waited while the bloodshot eyes found their mark and focused. It took a long moment.

  “Not at all, son! Not at all! Please! Please come and sit down.” The attorney’s motions were large and sodden. He tried to stand straight, but instead he swayed in some unseen breeze of rye. “Uhph! Almost forgot my manners. My name’s Joseph Tripp. Glad to meet you.” A skinny arm clothed in an out-of-date and slightly shiny wool suit was extended toward Shea. Once the formalities were over, with he waved grandly for his visitor to sit down. That done, the attorney plunked back down into his creaking chair.

  The attorney pushed a few papers aside. “Please excuse the mess! I have been up to my ears with work while my secretary is on vacation. What can I do for you, my lad?”

  Shea let the man have his lie and looked around the office and saw relics of Joseph Tripp in his early, vastly more successful days. Pictures of a younger Tripp smiled out at him. Faded awards dotted the walls and tops of file cabinets. A color picture of what must have been Tripp with his wife and children aboard a sailboat had faded to mostly shades of green and yellow. “My name is Owen Shea. I’m the attorney general for Massachusetts.” Anyone in the legal profession would have known this fact, but Shea felt it needed emphasizing. “I need you to help me with some research I’m doing on a case. I’d like to see the file on the Wyeth Family Trust you did.”

  The alcohol-enhanced cordiality vanished and was replaced with a confused wariness. “What? I thought I told you guys everything you wanted to know. I’m finished with that.” Tripp’s red eyes began to dart around the room. “I have nothing more to say. Now leave.” The thin man again squeaked his way to his feet.

  “Well then, if you could just take a moment to tell me what you told them, I would appreciate it.” Shea did not like this setup at all. Hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he wondered just who it was the man was referring to. He would have to find out slowly and baited the old man. “Was it Reeves and Grady who were here? You know, one’s a big hefty guy and the other is built like you.”

  “No. I forget their names. Both were built like you. Young. Now get out.” The older man had a funny sense of urgency around him. His eyes darted from Shea to the door. It was like he was looking for something. Or at someone.

  “Please, it’s an old case for you. I just want to ask you some questions about the family and what their goals were with the trust they set up. You were their attorney. I am sure they trusted you with their family matters as well. If you could just recall one of the many clients you were involved with back then, it would be of great service.” He tried to get the man to think about his glory days. Maybe that would prompt him to help.

  It almost worked. He could see the faint glimmer of a smile cross the stubble-covered face. His eyes again rested on the doorway. “No. Nothing. That’s the truth. It was a standard boilerplate trust. Nothing fancy. Nothing special. There. That’s it. Now that you know you can leave. Now.”

  Shea stood up to leave. He placed his files and notepad on the table beside him. He could feel the air in the room shift. Looking over the shoulder of the agitated attorney toward the window, Shea could see the reflection of the doorway. A shadow shifted imperceptibly.

  Shea sensed more than saw the figure lunge toward him. He was able to duck and brace himself for the impact, stunning his opponent, but the force still knocked him to his knees. He was grabbed by his sweater and hauled to his feet. His mind took in every detail point by point.

  The old attorney was no threat. He sat and cowered in his chair as his visitor’s beating took place. Shea remembered that there were two men asking about the Wyeths. He had to make sure not to lose his ability to perceive who else was in the room with him.

  He received several hard blows to his face and gut. He brought both hands up to stop the blasts and got a good look at his opponent. Young. Scared. He hoped inexperienced, too.

  His training in the police academy blended with a keen desire to survive. As fast and as hard as he could deliver them, Shea pelted the face and head of his attacker with a series of closed fisted hits. That was enough to stun his opponent. In the brief pause which followed, Shea slammed the young man in the chest, knocking the air out of him and doubling him over. One quick knee kick to his head, and the man crumpled, unconscious, to the floor.

  He moved immediately to place himself behind the door of the office and raised his joined hands over his head like an ax. In less than a second, the other attacker entered the room. Shea compressed his body down, using his arms against the attacker like a hammer and anvil. The blow was swift and effective. The second man lay motionless on the floor.

  “You need to get out of here. Now.” Shea moved toward the frightened Tripp and forced him to his feet. The old man’s bones nearly clacked together in fear. Shea pushed his face down so that they were nose to nose. “But first, I want those files.”

  “I... I gave some to them. B-but not all. Here! Here, take these.” Tripp went to a cabinet and pulled several files out. He reached down inside the back panel and produced a set of keys. His knobby fingers fumbled with them for what seemed like forever. Finally, he used one to unlock a smaller drawer, hidden inside the cabinet. Two large brown envelopes were produced. Both had red wax seals. The one addressed to the attorney had its seal broken. The other was still closed.

  Shea took the files and envelopes. He pushed Tripp out the door. He looked up and down the street. “Which car was theirs?” Only a few parked cars dotted the side street. Tripp held up a shaking finger. He indicated a dark late model American car.

  “They’ll be coming back for you. You need to go somewhere for a while. No family. No friends. Just you. Gone. Pay everything in cash for the next two weeks. By then, this should all be a bad dream.” Tripp lurched his way down the street.

  Shea ran over to their car and tried the doors. They were unlocked, obviously ready for a speedy departure. He found the set of files on the floor under the front seat. He checked the glove compartment for the car’s registration. A rental. Slamming the car door, he took his own set of keys and carved a long gash in its gleaming side. It’ll make it easier for the rental agency to remember the two goons who returned a vandalized car.

  He got into his own car and was about to turn the engine over. “Jesus H. Christ! Fool!” He jumped out of the car and checked the hood for fingerprints. Just a thin film of undisturbed road dust uniformly covered the car. He bent down and checked underneath. He could just make out the outlines of a black box, about seven inches long, three deep and three wide, attached to the manifold. He looked at the device carefully and thought about the length of time he was away from the car. There was no time to think. He reached under, grabbed the box, closed his eyes and yanked as hard as he could.

  “One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand...” He counted slowly, his heart pounding against his chest. “Eight one thousand. Nine one thousand. Ten...” He let the air held t
ightly in his lungs out with a long hiss. “Holy Christ. I’m alive.” He had guessed that with the short period that elapsed and seeing no other wires, the device was attached by a magnet and was thermally detonated. He guessed right. It did not have a timing device. He made a nest for it in his trunk with his parka where it would remain cold and padded from any jolts and gingerly closed the trunk shut.

  He drove down the road and decided to take his own advice. He needed to go underground while he worked on this. He could not go back to the office. Or his home. Research could be done with his PC and on-line services without going back to the office. He would claim flu got him down and hole up somewhere out of sight, reviewing the files and researching the case. Staying away would be easy, but how would Jessica be able to reach him? He just hoped that she would be smart enough to stay away from his office. If she went there, it would be a good way to get everyone killed.

  It had been five days since she last saw Shea. She had been trying to reach him for three. It was imperative that she connect with him. His office said he was out with the flu and no one she talked to there seemed concerned by his absence. Jessica was moving around too much to leave a return number for ‘Rita Harrison’.

  Her desperation was mounting. She had to talk to Shea and tell him what she had done. Her conversations with Electra had gone well. It was a huge risk asking Electra to mail the lighter to his office, but it was the only viable alternative. Jessica left out his title and the fact that the address was to the Massachusetts’ Attorney General’s office and told Electra to mark the package ‘Personal.’ But each day that slipped by was one more day that Jessica failed in her strategy. Time was against her.

  She was past desperate and getting reckless, circling closer and closer to his building hoping to see him, to contact him somehow. The tape they made together at the hotel may have been seen by anyone. Jessica had no idea who his allies were or what they looked like. Constantly changing clothes and hair made her feel foolish, but she was still alive because of it.