Borrowed Time

by Tracy Clark

  Tim had something Darby wanted or needed. That had to be true. It couldn’t have been money. Tim didn’t have any to speak of. He’d lived large his last months, throwing parties, traveling, donating to worthy causes. He had his family name, but Darby couldn’t get at that in any substantive way. The boat? Surely, even Darby wouldn’t kill just for that; besides, he had a sweet deal hanging out on his boss’s boat and he looked comfortable living here—however that little arrangement came to be.

  I trotted down the stairs, turned back, and studied the colorful Victorian, hoping to see Darby peeping out of a window so I could glare at him one last time. I felt fairly confident that when I found out why Tim Ayers died, I’d find Darby there, wrapped up tightly in the mess, all the way up to his six-pack abs. I headed back to my car in one piece, relieved I could.

  * * *

  On the face of things, Sterling looked legitimate, but after Vincent Darby’s threat to break me in two, I had a strong feeling his contribution to the operation wasn’t completely on the up and up. I had no problem believing an ex-con could turn it around and lead a productive life—Whip did and he was doing just fine. But there was something about Darby—the way his charming persona shriveled up and died when I’d pressed him, the way he minimized his contact with Tim with what seemed like an obvious lie. Artwork? I don’t think so. And now the threat. It told me his time in prison hadn’t done much for him. If Spada hired Darby not knowing about his past, that was one thing. If Spada knew full well who Darby was, that said something else. Could the handsome con man be running a con right under his boss’s nose? I headed downtown to Spada’s office to find out.

  Stopped at a long light, I pulled up Spada’s company website and found a photo of him. He didn’t look like much. He was white, sixtyish, his face well lived in, though it appeared he’d had some cosmetic work done around his eyes, and didn’t have even one inch of chin jowl. It was the wide smile, though, that leapt off the screen and grabbed me by the throat and held on. It was just a little too eager, too bright, too much wattage, like a used-car salesman’s whose very life depended on unloading a lemon he knew full well had questionable provenance.

  Sterling’s mission statement pledged to put its clients first and provide the settlement they deserved. We aren’t satisfied until we make your dreams come true, it read. Let us take the risk, so you don’t have to. I shrugged. It sounded good. And from what I’d found out about settlements like Tim’s, they were fairly common and had been since the AIDS crisis in the late 1980s, when people were dying in great numbers and treatment was costly. The end-of-life business had grown and been refined over the years and it was now quite lucrative. Still, there was some element of risk involved. I wondered if Tim had known that? Even if he had, he’d have had very few options, thanks to Stephen.

  On the surface, the whole settlement thing sounded straightforward. The dying policyholder sold his or her policy for ready cash, and an investor took over the premiums and cashed in when death occurred. Easy-peasy, and all of it meant to be short-term. A win-win for both sides, according to Spada’s pitch, but everything had a downside. Nothing was ever truly win-win.

  Sterling Associates was in the Aon Center on Randolph, at the foot end of North Michigan Avenue, just shy of the Mag Mile. I rode up to the twenty-fifth floor of the towering skyscraper composing my thoughts, working up a good plan for getting past reception and into Spada’s inner office. Maybe I could pass myself off as a dying woman interested in signing up for the same deal Tim had? Maybe a flash of my PI’s license would do it? But when the elevator doors opened, Spada was standing right there at the doors. I was coming up; he was heading down. I recognized him from his photo, but when he looked at me his eyes also registered recognition. I’d suspected that it had been Darby in that ominous black SUV in the marina lot, but now I knew for sure. He’d taken my picture and shared it with his boss, Nick Spada. Startled, he stepped back, the color blanching from his overly tanned face. He carried a briefcase and was dressed in a nice suit, and it looked like he was leaving in a hurry. Chances were good his hasty exit had been prompted by a call from Darby warning him that I might be headed his way. That hinted at a close relationship between the two men, didn’t it?

  I reached over and pushed the button to hold the doors, then smiled. “So, are you getting on, Mr. Spada, or should I get off?” He didn’t move.

  “You made good time, Ms. Raines.”

  It didn’t look like he’d get on, so I stepped off and let the car go. “It’s good Darby called ahead. It saves time. You already know why I’m here.”

  “Did you actually accuse him of being involved in Tim Ayers’s death?”

  I smiled. “I wanted to see how he’d take it.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  I stepped closer. “He didn’t flinch, or blink, or panic. Most innocent people would do one of the three, perhaps all of the three, when accused of killing a man. So I’m wondering how a man like that came to work for a company like this, and what you know about him.”

  Spada reached over and pushed the button for the elevator. He pushed it more than once, more than twice, as if that would get the car there faster. “Not going to discuss him or Timothy Ayers with you. Never mind the privacy issues, you’re not the police, and you have no authority to question me. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  The elevator arrived. Spada eyed it like a hungry dog might eye a pork chop sitting too close to the edge on the supper table. When he rushed onto the elevator, I followed right behind him. I punched the button for the lobby and we moved to opposite corners while the doors whooshed closed and the car began to descend. Spada didn’t look happy. He was trapped with the last person on earth he wanted to be trapped with. “Vincent told me you were persistent.”

  “Did he also tell you that he threatened to break me in two?”

  His lips twisted into a crafty smile. “And yet here you are. I’m not sure what that says about you.”

  Spada watched the floors tick by. It was a slow elevator, despite the size of the building. We were just on floor twenty-one. If the elevator had had a window, the look on Spada’s face told me he’d have thought about jumping out of it.

  “Do you know where Darby was the night Tim died?”

  “How would I? He’s an employee. I don’t know the intimate details of his comings and goings.”

  “Do you remember where you were?”

  He pulled back, stared at me. “You’re accusing me of murder? Do you have any idea who I am? How many boards I sit on? How much I’m worth?”

  We were silent for a time.

  “I have a theory,” I said. “At this point, that’s all it is. I think something went wrong with whatever business you and Darby set Tim up with, and that it quickly went from bad to worse.”

  Spada reached over and punched the lobby button unnecessarily. “I’m not having this conversation. Tim Ayers’s death was an accident. In fact, it was a personal blow to me, as I am a good friend of the Ayers family. Of course, I sent my sincerest condolences for their loss. Such a tragic situation, such a nice young man, but his passing had nothing to do with either of us.” He slid me a look. “I’d hate to get attorneys involved.”

  We were closing in on floor eighteen. Did everybody in this town have an attorney on speed-dial? “Who’s Peter Langham?”

  Spada didn’t answer.

  “He passed away months ago,” I said. “Darby’s living in his house. Any idea how that came about?”

  Spada shook his head, frowning. “Privacy issues prevent . . .”

  The elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor and a white man in his twenties got on. He glanced at the two of us, unimpressed with what he saw, then faced front, his eyes on his iPhone, earbuds in his ears, his fingers moving a mile a minute. The music spilling out of the earbuds sounded like a herd of cats being skinned alive. A bomb could have gone off in the car and he wouldn’t have noticed till his hair caught fire. Spada reached into the outside p
ocket of his briefcase and pulled out a glossy folder with STERLING ASSOCIATES emblazoned on the front. He handed it to me.

  “You obviously have no idea what we do here, but we’re one of the leading firms in this state for viatical settlements. My company has an excellent reputation, as do I. Top seller three years running.” He stood straighter, obviously pleased with himself. “You’ll never find one client who isn’t completely satisfied with the service we provide. That anyone here would have anything to do with what you’re suggesting, well, that’s insane.” He flicked a look at the oblivious young man.

  I leafed through the folder at photos of all the smiling, dying people on the final adventure of their lives: sailing the high seas, standing in front of the Sphinx, drinking wine at an outdoor café in Paris, happy to have the money to go out on a high note. The third wheel, the young man on his phone, barely moved. Tenth floor.

  I held the folder up. “You finance dreams.”

  “We ensure our clients the best arrangement possible. A great amount of work and care goes into it. Each settlement is tailored for maximum success, maximum return. I take personal responsibility. In fact, I handle select clients myself, so your theory that Vincent and Tim had some kind of side arrangement going simply doesn’t hold water.”

  “Who was Tim’s investor?”

  Spada slid a look toward Mr. iPhone, then eyed the numbers above the door nervously. He wanted out bad. Fifth floor. We stood there, facing off across the elevator car, our eyes holding, the yowling of the skinned cats the only distraction. After a time, the door dinged. We’d finally reached the lobby. I could almost feel Spada’s relief as the doors opened. He smiled, checked his fancy watch, then darted out. I followed.

  “Did you really expect me to answer that in a crowded elevator?”

  “It was a crowd of one,” I said. “But we’re out now, just you and me. Who was Tim’s investor?”

  “You’re treading on very dangerous ground. Very dangerous. You’re going to want to take great care with how you proceed.”

  “You’re the second person from Sterling to threaten me today. What kind of company are you running?” His eyes seemed to cut right through me; then he quietly turned and walked away.

  “Good day, Ms. Raines.”

  “Not yet it isn’t,” I called after him. He wouldn’t discuss Peter Langham, citing privacy issues, which confirmed that Langham had been a Sterling client. Just like Tim. Now both were dead, both connected to an ex-con, and all three connected to Nicholas Spada, self-proclaimed godsend to the terminally ill. How had Langham died? Who stood to gain by Tim dying when he did? Did Stephen Ayers have anything to do with Spada? I gripped the folder in my hands and watched as the wealthy man with the designer tan walked away from me; then I turned and hustled off.

  Chapter 27

  I ducked into a Starbucks to call Lucy Earles. She was an investment analyst I knew, one I called whenever I had to unravel high-finance issues that made my head hurt and my eyes glaze over. I needed the facts on this whole policy-selling thing, not Spada’s high-voltage hard sell, and Lucy was the one to ask. I got a muffin and started in on it at a corner table, Spada’s folder of goodies open in front of me. Then I dialed Lucy’s number.

  “I get the concept,” I said. “But how exactly does this thing really work? And what’s wrong with it?”

  I could feel Lucy’s judgment oozing over the line. She had zero sense of humor where money and investing were concerned. She knew money like nobody’s business and probably had the first dime she ever made firmly tucked into a vault in her basement, as well as a cadre of little money trolls on call to help her count the stacks.

  “Why do you assume there’s something wrong with it? These settlements are a legitimate short-term investment option. Are you looking to invest?”

  I pictured Lucy sitting in her small office surrounded by calculators and actuary tables, her crisp little banker’s suit neatly pressed, her black hair pulled back in a librarian’s bun, the Wall Street Journal spread out in front of her.

  Investing and speculating all seemed a little too nerve-wracking for me. I put my money in the bank, where it grew by pennies a day, but at least I knew where it was and I could get at it if the sky caved in and the zombies showed up. I’d likely die a pauper, but it wouldn’t be from stress at watching red arrows rise and fall on the NY Stock Exchange. I popped a piece of muffin in my mouth, swallowed.

  “Why are you always trying to get at my money?”

  “Because it’s not working for you, and it drives me crazy.”

  “I prefer to work for it.” That was an equation I could understand: Work. Pay. Deposit. Easy math. “Let it go, Luce. How short-term are we talking?”

  “You do know you’re literally leaving money on the table.”

  I eyed the half-gone muffin and considered another. “Well, now you’re just making me feel stupid.”

  She was quiet on her end.

  “Viatical settlements,” I prodded gently. “Short-term?”

  I took the long sigh on her end as her letting my money buffoonery go. “Short-term. Up to a year, no more than three, I guess, in order to see some kind of return.”

  “How lucrative is something like this for the investor?”

  “It’s decent. They’re paying the premiums on the policy, of course, as the new holders, but there’s no real risk, the person’s gonna die. It’s only a question of when. The market should be such a sure thing.”

  “I read up on this a little,” I said. “A deal like this gets split a lot of different ways, a lot of things could go wrong, but run it down for me. Give me an example.”

  She hummed for a couple seconds. “Okay, let’s say you have a hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy. Then you find out you’re dying of something and have to finance your care, or you want to live it up while you can. You’ve got no other assets, so you sell the only thing you have that’s worth anything.”

  “My insurance policy,” I said.

  “Right. You’re probably looking to get about eighty thousand of that to do whatever with. An investor would probably pay a little more than you’re getting, eighty-eight thousand maybe, for a guaranteed return of the full death benefit when you go.”

  I pulled a face. Lucy’s explanation smelled an awful lot like death speculating. “Where does the rest of the money go?”

  “I was getting to that. The rest goes to a broker who sets up the whole thing. I guess you could look at it like a commission. There’s paperwork to file, legal and other expenses to cover. On this hundred-thousand-dollar policy, the broker might pull in seven or eight thousand, easy. Not bad for shuffling paper around. In a year’s time, a smart investor could see a return of about thirteen or fourteen percent on his eighty-eight-thousand-dollar pay down. Though, of course, that return percentage decreases the longer they hold the policy.”

  “You mean the longer the person doesn’t die,” I said.

  “Basically, but like I said, these settlements are meant to be short-term. Your investment returns decrease over time. Your second year in, you might only see a return of six percent. The third year—if things drag on that long—less than that, since you’re maintaining the policy the whole time.”

  “So if I’m an investor and I buy someone’s policy, and the person doesn’t die when I was promised they would, I basically lose my shirt?”

  “The longer they live, the less you get out of it.”

  “And if the person continues not to die?”

  “The less you make on the deal.”

  “And if I’m really shrewd and buy the policy for less than it’s worth, knowing full well the person I’m buying it from is in no position to haggle with me?”

  “I’d like to say that could never happen, but reality? People are people. Not everyone’s ethical.”

  I sat quietly, letting the information sink in. I’d forgotten about the second muffin.

  “So I might decide to do something about the waiting
,” I said finally.

  “Do something? Like what?”

  “Bring about death,” I said.

  “As in ‘kill somebody’?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucy said nothing for a time. “Yeah, I don’t like the way your mind works, so I’m hanging up now. I thought we were talking investments, but things have gone way off the rails here.”

  I had to agree with her, but then I also had to admit that people killed for all kinds of reasons. Spada and the investor, whoever that was, stood to lose a lot if Tim didn’t die when his doctors said he would. So, do they just sit there and watch money slip away from them, or do they do something about it? Was that where Darby came in?

  “I’d imagine there’d be reputable places where you could set something like this up, but also a few disreputable ones, too,” I said.

  “Just like anything else, sure. You have to be very careful what you sign off on, that’s for sure. But this type of investment is regulated. I mean, there’s oversight, laws. This isn’t the Wild West.”

  My eyes tracked an old man as he walked up to the counter and stood stymied by the variety of choices on the menu board. I felt for him. Only Starbucks could complicate a cup of joe. The old man quickly gave up and left. “And reputable or disreputable,” I said, “they’d deal in multiple settlements, not just one. So that seven- to eight-thousand-dollar example you gave me could potentially be multiplied by fifty or a hundred, or more.”

  “Sure.”

  “Can the broker and the investor be the same person?”

  “Hmmm.” I could hear tapping from Lucy’s end of the line as she considered the question, likely her Number 2 pencil hitting the top of her immaculate desk. “The company could be the purchaser of the policy, thereby becoming the investor. What’s going on?”

  “Beats me, but I don’t think I like it.”

  “And all those numbers you just quoted me rise if the policy’s worth more than a hundred thousand.”