Deep Pockets (Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries Book 10)

by Linda Barnes

  The lobby was marble-tiled, the sign-in desk mahogany, the offices of Hawthorne and Fitch a giant step up from Geary’s Kendall Square den. I admired the Oriental rug in the twelfth-floor waiting room and imagined that Harvard’s lawyers commanded even plusher digs in a more luxuriously appointed building.

  A receptionist kept me waiting in a blue velvet armchair for eight minutes before ushering me into a corner office and abandoning me to another blue velvet chair. Had she known me better, she’d have kept me in the outer office. The assumption that clients—and how was she to know I wasn’t one?—don’t snoop is not a good one for a young receptionist to make.

  Alas, Mr. T.J. Fitch, Esquire, kept no incriminating papers on his desk. Matter of fact, he kept nothing on his desk. Its shining empty surface, broken only by a vase of tulips and daffodils, made me flat-out suspicious.

  In spite of the disappointing desk, I had plenty to admire. The view from the window was superb—blue sky, jagged rooftops, the cranes and shovels of the Dig, the aqua ocean. There must have been fifty pictures on the far wall, not counting certificates. Every honor Theodore Jackson Fitch had garnered in his life, he’d framed, including his high school diploma, which was from Boston College High. The Boston College diploma was there as well, which made him a double eagle in local lingo. I looked for his law school diploma. If he’d gone to BC Law, he’d be a triple. Nope. He’d gone to Yale.

  I recognized several faces in the photos and started to make the connections you make in a small city like Boston. I recognized a group of lawyers known around town as “the Big Tobacco boys,” guys who’d made the industry cry uncle and pay up. Many had pocketed million-dollar fees. I identified Fitch from his presence in so many shots. He had a nice even smile, which he bestowed on many politicos, Republicans and Democrats alike.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said pointedly, apparently unhappy to find me standing behind his desk instead of sitting in the supplicant’s chair. “I haven’t got a lot of time, but Todd Geary was extremely insistent.”

  Good for Geary, I thought.

  He wore a suit that must have set him back a thousand bucks, Canali or Zegna, one of those Italian labels they carry at Neiman Marcus or Bloomingdale’s. His shirt was snowy white, his tie hand-painted silk. Maybe he was expecting to have his photo taken again. I regretted not wearing my suit. I was definitely outclassed, but what can you do?

  “So what is it you want?” He settled behind his massive desk, nodded me back into the blue velvet chair.

  “Did Mr. Geary tell you I was in his employ?”

  “He did.” The lawyer kicked back in his chair, placed one leg on the corner of his desk, displaying a Bally loafer. I wondered if he’d worn such nice footwear before the tobacco firms settled.

  “The name Denali Brinkman has come up in an investigation relating to one of Mr. Geary’s clients.”

  “Brinkman.”

  I thought it odd that he chose to repeat the last name. Denali’s the odd name, the one anyone hearing it for the first time would be likely to echo. The vague politeness of his voice told me he had no recollection of the name, but the brief flash of interest in his eye said something entirely different.

  I said, “I’d like you to tell me what you can about her connection with the suit you’ve filed against Harvard.”

  “Because you ask.”

  “Because Todd Geary asks.”

  I watched him sum me up, trying to decide how little he could get away with revealing. He assumed a bland and pleasant demeanor.

  “We live in a age of corporate responsibility,” he began. “Corporations used to feel they could boss everyone around. ‘What’s good for General Motors,’ you know?”

  “‘Is good for the country,’” I responded.

  “Right. And what’s good for the chemical companies and what’s good for the tobacco industry, and then people realized what they’ve always known: Might doesn’t make right. And look at things now. Big Tobacco took a huge hit. The Roman Catholic Church is going to have to sell major property to settle its sex-abuse cases. McDonald’s is going to have to face the fact that it’s poisoning its consumers every bit as much as Big Tobacco ever did. These giants do not police themselves.”

  I nodded because he seemed to expect a reaction.

  “Here’s a corollary: If we hold corporations responsible for their actions, shouldn’t we hold colleges responsible for theirs? We give them not simply our dollars but our most precious thing, our children.”

  He stopped, as though waiting for applause from a crowded courtroom. I was obviously there to warm him up for a courtroom appearance.

  “Brinkman’s name,” he went on, “was part of a class-action suit brought against Harvard University.”

  “And the class?”

  “Parents who’ve lost their children.”

  “It can’t be a very large class,” I said. A very sympathetic class, though, I thought. If I were bringing the suit, I’d go for a jury trial.

  “Larger than you might think,” he said. “And there are other suits, against other prestigious universities.”

  He didn’t finish the thought, but he didn’t have to; it was there on his walls, in the photographs. He was thinking of bringing all the suits together. One big class, like the tobacco suit, but more exclusive.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but are you talking about an extension of Tarasoff?”

  “Very good,” he said. “You’ve come across it?”

  I nodded. It was an old decision, 1976 or thereabouts, that talked of a “duty to warn.” Psychiatrists, in particular, had been held liable for not warning the parents of suicidal minors, or the potential victims of homicidal patients.

  “It’s my understanding that Miss Brinkman is no longer involved in the lawsuit,” I said.

  He smiled. “If she was, I wouldn’t be talking to you, in spite of any favors I might owe Todd Geary.”

  “Can you give me a time line? Was Brinkman one of your first clients?”

  “My last. This suit has been building for a long time. My initial clients lost their child eight years ago.”

  Eight years is a long time. I wondered if the lawsuit were a way of holding on to the lost child, a way of refusing to accept the death. Since college students are no longer considered minor children, I wondered if the parents had a legal leg to stand on.

  “So Brinkman joined when?”

  “Barely a month ago.”

  “Can you give me the exact date?”

  He thought about refusing for the hell of it, because he was a lawyer. He must have owed Todd Geary a big one, because he reconsidered, opened one of his desk drawers, and rooted in a file.

  “I’d also like to know who contacted you on behalf of Brinkman’s family, an attorney, a—”

  “It was the girl’s fianc’. He intimated that he had the support of a great-uncle, the next of kin, who resides in Switzerland.”

  “The fianc’ would be Mr. Dowling, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the uncle?”

  “Albert Brinkman of Lausannne.”

  “I would appreciate both of their addresses. Todd Geary would.”

  “Ask my secretary on your way out.” He was hoping I’d take the hint, but I stayed seated as he consulted a sheet of paper. “They joined the suit April fifteenth.”

  “You met Mr. Dowling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he impress you favorably?”

  Fitch was very good at controlling his face, but his lips pursed slightly. “Reasonably so.”

  “You accepted him as Denali’s fianc’?”

  “He had letters from the woman, a photo of her. He was upset—justifiably, considering what had occured.”

  “Did you happen to copy the photo, keep it?”

  “I request photos of all the victims. These are young people, bright, energetic, with all their lives ahead of them.”

  He was going for a jury trial all right. “May I see it
?”

  “You can have it. Tell Todd I’ll put it on his bill.”

  If the Globe had run this one instead of their grainy rowing shot, they’d have had people leaving flowers at the boathouse, turning it into a shrine, à la Buckingham Palace the day after Princess Diana died. Denali Brinkman was sitting on a bed, or maybe a couch, looking away from the camera. I wondered if she knew the picture had been taken, if she’d glanced up a moment later and protested. One hand was behind her, splayed on a coverlet or a throw; the other was at her temple, smoothing back her hair. She had a small, secret smile on her face. High cheekbones, long lashes, a thin, elegant nose. I wondered if she’d ever modeled, then thought, No, her face is too individualistic.

  “And when did Mr. Dowling and Mr. Brinkman change their mind about the lawsuit?” I asked.

  He pressed his lips together, deciding whether to keep talking, weighing the pros and cons. “This week.”

  “And which one changed his mind, or was it both of them?”

  “Mr. Brinkman said he wanted no part of any action against Harvard.”

  “Do you know why he changed his mind?”

  “No.”

  “But you have a suspicion.”

  “Not really.”

  “A speculation.”

  “I need to wind this up, but I’ll say this: I was relieved when Brinkman bowed out. I felt he would weaken my case. I might have asked him to withdraw if he hadn’t taken that choice away from me.”

  “Why?”

  “Whom do you represent?”

  “Geary.”

  “Whom does he represent?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Then I can’t say, either.”

  “Mr. Geary will be disappointed.”

  We sat on opposite sides of the sleek desk, each waiting for the other to speak. The silence grew. I wanted Fitch to take his time, review whatever it was he owed Todd Geary, decide how much getting me peacefully out of his office was worth. The view from the window was fine, and I had a lot to think about.

  In my experience, cases have patterns. There was a pattern to the blackmail and a pattern to the lawsuit. Each had a purpose: to make money off Denali Brinkman’s death.

  But there was another pattern as well, one that didn’t fit, one I didn’t understand. I considered the events. The blackmail had drawn me into the case. The lawsuit served the same purpose as the blackmail. But what about Dowling’s death? What about the withdrawal from the lawsuit? I couldn’t see the purpose, so I couldn’t find the pattern.

  Fitch spoke. “Tell Mr. Geary he might try the other side.”

  “The other side,” I repeated.

  He smiled. “I don’t mean the dark side here, although maybe I do. I’m a Yalie, you know. We often call Harvard ‘the dark side.’”

  “You’re suggesting that Geary try Harvard’s attorneys?”

  “Well, yes, although Harvard’s lawyers, like most, tend to err on the side of discretion. It was good to meet you.” He stood, impatient to end the interview.

  “Mr. Geary’s in a hurry on this. He needs to know.”

  “Then you might try someone less discreet.”

  I waited. There was no point pleading. If he wanted me to know, he’d mention a name, a place.

  “If I were you,” he said, crossing the room and opening the door to the hallway, “I’d try Harvard Admissions.”

  I decided to press. “Anyone in particular?”

  “That’s it,” he said. “That’s enough. Tell Todd when I say five minutes, I mean five minutes, not fifteen. Good-bye.”

  After thirty long seconds, I gave up and walked through the doorway. The door closed softly behind me. You can’t slam doors in places like that. The carpet’s too thick to allow it.

  CHAPTER 26

  What was the name of that mythological beast, the nine-headed serpent killed by Hercules? I bet a smart student like Denali Brinkman could have dredged Hydra from her memory in a flash. If I recalled correctly the least attractive thing about the Hydra was the fact that when you cut off one head, two more popped forth to take its place. Same thing with this case. Instead of finding answers to my questions, I was finding more damned questions.

  I wanted to get back to Improvisational Technologies, I needed to visit the Harvard Admissions office, but the medical examiner’s office was closer than either, which put it next on my list. I used my cell, got my pal Beaubien on the first ring.

  Jackson Beaubien, my prime source at the ME’s office, is about forty years old, small, white, and stooped. He has a slight southern drawl and gives me the creeps, not the least because he always wears a shower cap and is eager to discuss corpses. We first got to know each other when I was a cop, and he’s one of the contacts I maintain with strategic Christmas bottles of scotch. He’s an orderly, a gofer, a nobody at work. He makes not standing out an art form.

  “You get it?” I asked him.

  “Easy as pie, but Xeroxing’s gettin’ expensive,” he told me.

  “You have it in your hand?”

  “Ready to go.”

  “Where can we meet?”

  “I’ma goin’ for lunch in Chinatown. Ya wanna eat?”

  “No time.” It was the truth, but I’d have made any excuse rather than have lunch with Beaubien. Like I said, he loves to talk about what he sees at work. The last time I ate with him, the people at the next table moved to a corner booth.

  “I’ll start walking,” he said.

  “Corner of Kneeland and Albany?”

  “Fifty bucks.”

  I fished two twenties and a ten from my backpack, wondered if the autopsy report on Brinkman would be worth its freight. Earlier, when I’d phoned Beaubien, I’d been full of the coincidence of the two sets of false alarms, eager to know whether Denali Brinkman’s suicide might have been murder in disguise. The discovery that Dowling worked at Impro had distracted me, but I still found the possibility fascinating. I gunned the ignition. Chaney would pay the fifty, and inquiring minds want to know.

  He was waiting on the corner, looking furtive, as always, wearing the shower cap, as always. I gave Beaubien the bills and he handed me an envelope. It could have passed for a drug deal.

  I used my cell to locate Chaney while I plotted a course toward Brighton and Improvisational Technologies—no mean feat, considering the ravages of the Big Dig project on city roads. He wasn’t at Harvard; Fording hadn’t reconsidered. I made it onto the Mass Pike, tried the Cambridge house, and got the sweet voice of Mark, Mrs. Chaney’s secretary. I identified myself and asked to speak to Chaney.

  I could hear Mrs. Chaney’s voice in the background. “Is that the Realtor?”

  “Hang on, please. I’ll see whether he’s able to take your call.” Mark was nothing if not polite. I thanked him.

  More female vocals, but I couldn’t understand the words.

  Mark again: “I’ll transfer you. Hang on.”

  Music, then another ring.

  “Have you got him?” Chaney’s tone was intense and demanding.

  “Who?”

  “The bastard who set me up. You have no idea what I’ve been through. The police—I came very close to getting arrested.” He lowered his volume abruptly, as though he’d suddenly realized he could be overheard. “They’d been to my bank. They knew I’d taken out money in cash. They had some idea that it involved Dowling, that I was paying him off for something, but I guess they had no proof he’d received the money. They kept asking me what I did with the cash.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them it was a personal matter. I refused to elaborate.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “Don’t leave town.”

  I wondered how long it would take before another scrap of evidence arrived at the cop house, telling them where to find Dowling’s stash.

  I said, “You’re not thinking of moving, are you?”

  “Moving?”

  “Your wife thought I might be the Rea
ltor.”

  He made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “No, no. It’s nothing. Just something she does, looking at real estate on the Vineyard, a fantasy thing. Are you making progress?”

  I dodged a massive pothole on the Pike. “Did you know Dowling worked with a cleaning service?”

  “I didn’t know Dowling at all.”

  “Would it surprise you to know he was part of the cleaning crew at your lab?”

  “At Impro? That is odd.” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

  “I’m heading over there now.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  A GTO passed me on the right and honked; I was only going ten miles over the speed limit, not fast enough for him.

  I said, “The man who was blackmailing you has a connection to your place of business, and you don’t think I should find out how long he’s worked there, or whose offices he cleaned?”

  “Look, there’s sensitive work going on and I don’t want the staff upset. How’s this? I’ll be there later this afternoon. Come at four, and I’ll be happy to show you around.”

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem. See you then.”

  What the hell is he hiding? I thought.

  The Impro parking lot was small, and in order to maximixe the number of cars, someone had simply drawn the lines so tightly that the SUVs and vans barely fit. It probably didn’t make the drivers park any worse than usual, but it sure didn’t seem to help, so I wound up parking in a larger lot at a nearby steak house, ignoring the threatening notices that said parking was strictly for patrons and all others would be towed at their own expense.