Cup of Evil: Corruption, Blackmail and Bodies Come to Light When a Sadistic Tycoon is Murdered

by E. Groat

  Cup of

  EVIL

  Corruption, Blackmail and Bodies Come to Light When a Sadistic Tycoon is Murdered

  E. Groat

  ebook published by Fideli Publishing Inc.

  Copyright © 2014 E. Groat

  No part of this eBook may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Fideli Publishing.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN: 978-1-60414-827-5

  To my son, Mr. Wonderful.

  Chapter 1

  It was one of those winter nights that promised punishment to anyone fool enough to venture out. Shutters creaked and awnings moaned from the previous night’s heavy snowfall, while a wet, raw wind ripped through the gangways between grimy buildings on Western Boulevard in lower Manhattan. It whistled through the carcasses of stripped and forgotten Fords, Plymouths and Metros that populated this frozen industrial wasteland, where buildings had once been moguls of commerce and light industry.

  Suddenly, with comic-book vividness, Zoe Erskine appeared, swathed in a crimson cape and wearing a hat trimmed in white ermine. She limped, as she wore only one knee-high, butter-soft boot. Her right foot was almost bare, except for remnants of a shredded nylon stocking, and the cold had turned her rosy-painted toes a fire-engine red.

  Zoe was young and graceful, and always moved quickly and lightly. Even she found it difficult to negotiate the snowdrifts and ice patches. Falling once, then twice, she picked herself up and worked her way slowly and deliberately through this hostile landscape, pausing only to glance at her unprotected foot. She was in pain and mildly frightened, unable to focus through tearful eyes caused by the wind and snow. The confusion and despair evaporated when she heard Garth’s voice above the quiet hush of the night.

  “Zoe! Zoe! Where’s the pizza?” he said. “And what the hell happened to you?” The priority of the questions did not go unnoticed. She would think about that later.

  “Hush, Garth, gotta tell you...” She spewed the words, breathing heavily as she fell into the car door Garth had just swung open. “First, get me out of this freezing weather, and forget your damned stomach.”

  Garth wheeled the Mercedes past lost, defenseless souls gathered for warmth in forgotten corners of this almost-deserted part of the city known as the Big Apple. Save for Tiny’s Pizza and its infamous ribs, why else would they be in this awful place at midnight? Two blocks uptown in her usual surroundings, she thought little of the seamier side of life. Only when hunger overtook Garth at odd hours of the night was she touched by those less fortunate. After a marathon of lovemaking, Tiny’s usually came to mind. Zoe had been with Garth now for more than two years, and was really with him.

  She had known him since she was a kid, when Garth went to work for her father. Warren and Garth were a match made in heaven, both champions of the underdog, good guys fighting for the cause. Zoe, to her dismay, did not always share their passion. Little did she know that was all about to change on this frigid night, as she scurried from a back alley in the black of night, under the yellow glare of city streetlights.

  As she rubbed warmth and feeling into her bone-chilled foot, Zoe regained her composure and began her tale. “The little bastard’s back there with Lawton.”

  “Who?” Garth drove on sullen, his hunger denied. “What the hell you talking about anyway, Zoe?”

  “Beckman,” she raged.

  She recalled Beckman making news last week, slobbering all over the aldermen on the city council about what he was going to do with this part of the city. Beckman was chief slumlord and tenement bigwig in these parts, and Lawton was his ordained gofer.

  Before his death, Warren A. Erskine had his own plans for the city. Plans far removed from what Beckman had in mind. The rebirth her father had envisioned was one of manufacturing, research, building, and commerce. What this place had once been, it could be again, teaming with the can-do spirit and chances for all hardworking individuals chasing the American dream. This was the place where movers and shakers of a bygone era made things flourish and grow. If Chicago was the big shoulders in Sandburg’s prose, then New York was the heart, soul, and mind of the nation. Warren Erskine had seen this great city fall into decay, and his aim was resurrection. He had planned for years, forging a relationship between city fathers and budding industry, acquiring tax credits, grants, donations and investment for this project.

  Maybe life had changed so much that it could never be that way again. People were different or, if not different, apathetic. Look at L.A. Who would have thought the heart of California would put itself out of business and tear down the entire city because of unrest, hatred, union greed, and power grabs? Business was fleeing from overregulation fees, taxation, and fraud. Enterprise zones? Government subsidy? What a joke. The children of Israel built the Great Pyramids in less time. Garth and Warren had worked tirelessly with federal, state, and city officials for the past three years to reach some common ground. The small grants, funding, and donations had started to make the herculean endeavor almost seem a reality. Still, Zoe’s faith in the system was never as rosy as her father’s. His passing made it all seem futile and unimportant to her, but Garth doggedly held onto what he felt was Warren’s reason for living those past few years.

  Old-fashioned and idealistic ideas might not cut it these days, but seeing Beckman plotting to destroy her father’s dream triggered some dormant fuse in Zoe. At this moment, in this filthy alley, her indifference to his project was frozen in time. Zoe became a team player. The grief and sadness dogging her these past months had renewed itself as firm resolve. Western Boulevard was not going to become a belching and burping zone for New York’s wine-and-dine set. Not this time, Beckman. Zoe could hear her father calling to her from the recesses of her mind, coupled with a deep, visceral coercing from her very core.

  “I won’t let it happen. I promise.”

  Chapter 2

  Nelson Randolph Beckman IV stood in the dim glow of the security lights that hung from the chain-link fencing enclosing what used to be the James Buchanan School. The light’s white glow exposed the final decay of the old school, another victim of inner-city rot. Beckman’s eyes, with their perpetual squint, were focused intently on Josh Lawton—his top advisor, attorney, and pimp for any unseemly job that needed to be done.

  “Have we got Harris yet?” Beckman bleated. Contrary to the opulence and regal bearing his name implied, he was a weasel of a man with a weaselly little voice. There was no indication of education, heart, or graciousness. For all his money, there was no Harvard background, no polo ponies or yachts berthed on Long Island. He envied all that in a small way, but he had neither the bearing nor the breeding to be really accepted by the social elite of New York. Old money still had a certain caste system, of which Nelson Randolph Beckman would never be a part. They merely tolerated his vulgar little self, for the sake of the bulk of his vulgar little wallet.

  Beckman’s sole reason for existence was to obtain, control, and win at any cost. In short, Nelson
Randolph IV was not a nice man. His only soft spot was a passion for authentic Louis XV furniture, the more ornate the better. His Manhattan penthouse was strewn with the stuff. Wouldn’t old Louis be happy to know that most of his earthly treasures had somehow ended up in storage with or surrounding Nellie R. Beckman. There was something very Freudian about this collection of treasure; it put old Louis and Nellie on the same plane, somehow on a first-name basis.

  None, save perhaps an old, dead king would refer to Nelson R. Beckman as “Nellie.” That moniker was reserved for a chosen few. His ninety-two-year-old mother — whom he loved dearly and catered to unceasingly — and his wife, who was thirty years his junior. He tolerated her; she was simply for show. Nellie, you see, had no attraction for the fairer set. His sexual preference was perverted, to say the least, bordering on cruel and unusual. He liked pain—not his own, but he loved to see it in others. In short, Nelson R. Beckman was just not a nice man; he was an evil one. This fact his mother did not know.

  “Well, have we got him or not?” he repeated. Lawton’s answer did not come fast enough, and Beckman made a sweeping gesture with his hand to get Lawton’s attention.

  “Mr. Beckman, I told you last week it was not going to be easy. This mayor-elect Harris, spawned from this so-called special election, is in the tank for a lot of people. He’s a bum, a corrupt shyster, a drug user. The people know it and the son-of-a bitch still gets elected. So much for our system; for the people and by the people. The guy’s got pull somewhere.

  “We have to move slowly,” Lawton continued, frustrated. “I haven’t got sufficient and strong enough background yet to really do him and his associates in. This one may take more than cash. Don’t forget, Erskine and Avery have been working on this project for three years. They have foreign and domestic interests signed up and ready to move, and most of the funding. Right now, all they need is the blessing of this bum Harris and the city planning commission. Erskine’s death and the special election are probably the only things that stopped this project from happening.”

  “Do it.” Beckman whipped his bony finger in Lawton’s face one more time. Then he softened his voice and half smiled. “See that it’s taken care of by next week, Josh.” He motioned to his two associates and vanished out the door.

  Joshua W. Lawton breathed easier as he followed in Beckman’s wake. Once inside his car, safe from the torment of the elements, he began to contemplate Beckman as he so often did, asking many questions of himself. What in the hell was he doing in a place like this, skulking like a criminal, talking to lowlife scum like Beckman anyway? The answer always came back the same. He was skulking because of Beckman’s flair for the dramatic, and what he was doing was criminal. The only reason, he mused, was his father. Along with his substantial inheritance and the prestigious law firm his father built, Lawton and Lawton. Beckman was somehow part of his inheritance — something about family obligations, old friendships, and debts that needed to be paid. Beckman’s security, and safe passage for his sometimes-unsavory business dealings, was all wrapped up in a promise made to Josh’s father before he died. Josh, however, did not fully understand the lengths he had to go to fulfill that promise.

  In truth, Joshua Lawton was a good man, honest and loyal. His wealth was achieved by dealing everyone a straight hand, which made it all the more difficult to align himself with Beckman. He despised the man, and Beckman knew it. Yet Beckman also knew he could trust this offspring of the senior Lawton. Josh was like his father, weak in that he considered integrity and truth part of the human condition. Not stupid mind you, just too damn idealistic. All his business dealings were “legitimate,” if not moral, just as they were with his father.

  Such was the plight of a man of honor with a strong sense of loyalty. God, how Josh wished Beckman would fall off the face of the Earth. Everyone’s life would be easier. The only reason Beckman wanted to possess this part of town and destroy reconstruction plans was because he hated Warren Erskine with a vengeance that did not diminish even after his death. As lousy as Beckman was with his dealings, Erskine was the antithesis of him. His operating mantras had been high credibility, quality work, and business standards — and he aced Beckman every time. Willful spite and jealousy were the only forces driving Beckman, which meant that Erskine’s partner Avery and his daughter Zoe had become business prey.

  Josh knew them both and respected them, even the project they had planned for this dismal place. After meeting Zoe last year at a fundraiser, he even found himself mildly attracted to the dark-haired, blue-eyed lady. She was charming, intelligent, and very, very resourceful. She had managed to turn a group of notoriously tight-fisted Wall Street barons into willing investors in her father’s idea of rebuild and rebirth. Josh was now finding himself caught up in the memory of her very fair, flawless face, framed by sleek, almost-black hair that cascaded loosely about her face. She reminded him of the classic Scarlett in Gone with the Wind. This whole thing had become all too ridiculous; it was downright shameful that he had to be the one to prevent her project from seeing daylight because of circumstances beyond his control. A promise made long ago to his father made him an unwilling enemy of Zoe Erskine. He did not feel this was right or fair. She was a lovely foe, but there was unfortunately no way to be on her side of the fence, no matter how noble the cause.

  Josh noticed on the dashboard clock that it was three in the morning when he wheeled into his reserved parking space. What a night. He needed some sleep, as he had a meeting with Harry the next day. Harry, a man he had known since his teens, was Josh’s eyes and ears. Josh, the upstanding forty-three-year-old lawyer with impeccable credentials, depended greatly on streetwise guys like Harry to achieve the desired outcome in many of his cases. Strange bedfellows indeed. “Did I say bed?” he thought. His apartment key gave no backtalk. He soared through the bedroom door and greeted the four-poster like a new puppy greeting its master with pure joy. He stretched broadly and kicked off his tasseled Allen Edmonds with an abandon unusual for the otherwise-tidy Mr. Lawton. He wriggled out of his hand-tailored Hickey Freeman suit and tossed it aimlessly toward the large wingback chair he used so often for his reading pleasure. Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes seemed to be holding firm this month, and Josh revisited Doyle often. Pulling back the comforter, Josh scurried between the sheets, switched off the lights, and curled his lean, six-foot frame into a fetal position.

  Chapter 3

  In the pre-dawn hours, Garth had just kept driving, letting the miles fall behind them. They had pulled off 95 about a half an hour ago to have a bite to eat at a 24-hour truck stop they had discovered about a year earlier. Garth knew the back roads and high roads around this part of Connecticut pretty well. He and Zoe used to frequent them in the old days, when they first met.

  Zoe had finally calmed down after an hour of raging over her discovery of Beckman and Lawton. Garth found himself amused, feeling her wrath toward these two. He never knew that her commitment to this project was quite this strong. He did know, however, that her father’s death had a profound effect on Zoe. For the longest time, she had felt that this downtown project was responsible for her father’s untimely departure from this good Earth. It was good to know she felt as strongly as he did about Warren’s project. Garth had tried to assure her that it was just a matter of time before this all became a reality. Unfortunately, one of Garth’s failings was that he was an incurable optimist. Cross all you T’s and dot all your I’s, work hard—and voila! All you’ve strived for will come to pass. Sometimes his unfailing optimism and good cheer drove Zoe over the edge.

  The past three-plus years had not been easy. After Warren had surveyed this downtown area and started thinking these wretched avenues could be viable again, he contacted Garth—construction engineer, small-time developer, and entrepreneur. Garth had done work for Warren before, and their association had become long and profitable. Garth respected him and, by the end, loved him as he did his own father. But, he never realized he’d be so completely
sucked into Warren’s dream. After several meetings in abandoned, skeletal remains of brick and mortar, Garth found himself shaking Warren Erskine’s firm, outstretched hand. He never looked back. They were partners, and in the ten years he had known Warren, he had never let him down. Not even in death. There was a substantial business-insurance policy in Garth’s name, which Warren had taken out the year before he died. Garth discovered this while going through the normal business documents. There was a large envelope with Garth’s name scribbled in Warren’s handwriting, and the policy provided well for him and the business. Garth was hell bent to see this project through. Beckman or no Beckman.

  Garth looked over at Zoe, who was now asleep. Earlier, they had decided to go a little farther up the coast to New Haven Harbor. Hell, it was Saturday, and they both needed a reprieve. Garth headed for the cabin where they had first made love.

  By the time they reached their destination, the sun was rising in the east. It was a glorious day, so much so that the sun on the snow was blinding. They made their way through undisturbed snowdrifts to the cabin that was about one hundred yards from the road. Once inside, Zoe busied herself uncovering furniture and brewing coffee, making it downright homey. She had been coming there since she was a child, and always felt quite domestic. This was where she and her mother made breakfasts and dinners for friends and family. Her father loved to fish, and would bring his catch of the day to her mother to prepare, always declaring that this catch was bigger and better than the last one. The cabin had several pictures of the family grinning stupidly over a stringer of fish her father proudly held.

  Those were the days she fondly remembered. Now she and Garth would make new memories to love and cherish. A roaring fire was all that was needed to make the Christmas-card surroundings complete, and Garth soon provided one by hauling in the well-seasoned hickory and oak stored behind the cabin. This was a small chore for Garth, whose contractor body was muscular and used to hard work. He chose one large oak log, along with several smaller logs and kindling, and soon he had the makings of a first-class fire. Exhausted, Garth made sure the fire was blazing, then eyed the huge, old bed covered with woolen and down blankets. Gathering each other in their arms, he and Zoe hugged each other tightly and went to sleep.