Death Benefits

by Michael A. Kahn

  “He told me he would. I’m certain he will.”

  “Don’t be so sure. He’s getting older, more forgetful. He’s not the man he once was.”

  Involuntarily, I glanced down at the button for the intercom line between my desk and Nancy’s. The light was still on.

  “While we’re waiting,” I said calmly, “maybe I can tie up some loose ends. Help speed things up. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead.”

  “Were you the one who did that to my car?”

  The question seemed to land with palpable force, pushing him further back so that he momentarily lost his balance before righting his chair. “Your car? I won’t even dignify that question with a response.”

  “Did you call me later that night?”

  “Did I what?” he sputtered.

  “You heard the question.”

  “Good God, lady, get serious.”

  “I am serious.”

  “And I am indignant. You can rest assured that Ishmael will hear about this.”

  “Tell him. But first answer my question.”

  “This is ludicrous.”

  “What is ludicrous?”

  “Even the suggestion that someone in my position would stoop to making that kind of call.”

  I paused, nodding slightly. “What kind of call?”

  He had realized his mistake. I could see it in his eyes as he tried to replay the last minute of our conversation in his head. “The kind of call you described,” he finally said, trying to sound belligerent.

  “I didn’t describe the call. I didn’t say anything about it. I just asked if you were the one who called me later that night.”

  “Word games,” he sneered. “This isn’t cross-examination, lady.”

  “It took me a while to figure it out,” I said, leaning back in my seat. “For a long time I really did think someone was trying to scare me off the Anderson investigation. I kept looking for a motive and couldn’t find one. But that was before I pieced together the ParaLex scheme.”

  If I needed any further confirmation, I got it from the way his eyes jumped when I mentioned the word ParaLex. I waited for him to say something, but he was waiting for me. I opened my desk and pulled out the ParaLex payment charts that Tyrone Henderson had printed out for me—the ones that listed each payment to ParaLex over the last three years. I slid them across the table.

  I watched as he leafed through page after page of the lists of checks to ParaLex.

  “Did you get this from our accounting department?” he finally asked.

  I shook my head. “I got it from Chicago.”

  “Who?” His voice was just a little hoarse now.

  “Someone.”

  “Ishmael?”

  “Of course not.”

  He tossed the printout on my desk. “You think ParaLex has something to do with Stoddard Anderson?”

  “I think ParaLex has something to do with you.”

  “Obviously it does. You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure that out. And we certainly don’t hide ParaLex from our clients. As you can see from these lists, we use ParaLex for administrative assistance in connection with many of our trusts and estates. As the head of that department, I suppose that makes me involved with any of our vendors, including appraisers, investment advisors, and other purveyors of services, such as ParaLex. But that doesn’t make me any more involved with them than one of my litigation partners is involved with a court reporting service. Indeed, I should think these ParaLex bills pale in comparison to the fees we’ve paid to certain court reporting services over the years. Do you have any idea what those depositions in Bottles and Cans have cost over the years? Over a million dollars.” He lifted the printouts. “According to these, the ParaLex payments average under fifty thousand dollars a year.” He shook his head and he tossed the printouts onto the desk. “Compared to other vendors, that’s peanuts.”

  “Yes, but there’s one difference.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Those other vendors actually exist.”

  That earned a facial twitch. “I’m not following you,” he said, trying to look confused.

  “The court reporter exists. The property appraiser exists. The copy service exists. ParaLex doesn’t.”

  He forced a laugh. “Ridiculous. Of course it exists.”

  I reached under my desk and lifted the St. Louis Telephone Directory. I heaved it onto me desk, where it landed with a heavy thud. “Call them,” I said.

  He studied the telephone book, his arms again crossed over his chest. He raised his eyes to meet my gaze. We stared at one another. “You’re on a wild-goose hunt, lady. Believe me, you’re in over your head.”

  “One of us sure is, Reed.”

  I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a photocopy of the front and back side of one of the canceled checks to ParaLex. I slid it across the desktop. “That,” I said, “is a check in payment of a ParaLex invoice. Look at the back. It’s been deposited into the ParaLex account at the First State Bank of Creve Coeur.”

  He looked up, his eyes cold. “Where did you get that check?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “Did that little prick-teaser give it to you?”

  “Portia? She doesn’t even know I have it. Is she in on this, too?”

  “That check is client property. I could have you up on charges before the disciplinary commission. You’ve invaded a client’s privacy. You’ve trespassed client property.”

  “Oh, come on, Reed. Trespassed client property? You’ve stolen client property. I’ve talked to the bank, Reed. I figured out what’s going on. That ParaLex bank account is your account. You own it. All these checks—all the money—they all go to you. ParaLex doesn’t exist except as a name on an invoice, a name on a post office box, and a name on a bank account. You’re ParaLex.”

  He seemed to be fighting for control of himself. “You’re wrong. You don’t understand.”

  “Stoddard Anderson found out about ParaLex, didn’t he? That’s why he had that meeting with you at the St. Louis Club.”

  “Goddamn you,” he said, his eyes flaring. “No one knew. No one. No one. Not even Anderson.”

  “Then why did he meet with you about ParaLex?”

  “He never figured it out,” he said with contempt, his fists clenched. “All Stoddard wanted to know was why we were paying ParaLex to perform services that we might be able to have our paralegals perform. He wanted to know if we could phase out ParaLex, phase in our paralegals, and bill their time at a profit. I told him we could. I told him I’d start transferring those functions to our paralegals. All Stoddard Anderson wanted to do was increase the profit ratios in the trusts and estates department. He was satisfied with my explanation. He had no idea. None. No one did.”

  He looked down, shaking his head. Suddenly, he slammed his fist on the desktop. “Goddamn you!” he shouted as he jumped to his feet and unzipped his briefcase. “I stopped ParaLex right after that meeting with Stoddard. It’s done. It’s over. No one ever figured it out. If you think I’m going to let you destroy me…” He started around the desk and pulled what looked like a short, wide crowbar out of his briefcase. “If you think I’m going to let you tell Ishmael about ParaLex…”

  As I stood up, backing against the window, my office door burst open. In stepped Detective Mario Aloni, holding a gun in both hands.

  “Sit down, sir,” he told St. Germain, pointing the gun at his head. “Drop that bar on the carpet. Now.”

  Stunned, St. Germain staggered back to his chair. He looked down in confusion at the iron bar grasped in his right hand.

  “Oh, Reed.”

  St. Germain looked up at the sound of the familiar baritone. Standing in the doorway was Ishmael Richardson, shakin
g his head sadly. “A petty thief and a petty thug. I am so disappointed.”

  Coming from the chairman of Abbott & Windsor, that last sentence was the equivalent of a judge imposing capital punishment. St. Germain winced, his head hanging down. He dropped the bar on the carpet. Aloni reached over and snatched it up.

  Ishmael turned to Aloni and me. “Rachel, Detective—I would like to have a few moments alone with Mr. St. Germain. I would appreciate it if one of you would turn off that intercom device at the secretary station. Reed and I have some matters to discuss in confidence.”

  We left after Aloni made St. Germain assume the position against the desk so that he could pat him down. On the way out, Aloni took the briefcase and the iron bar.

  ***

  An hour later, Ishmael joined us in the conference room. He looked fatigued.

  “Detective,” he said glumly, “I have attempted to achieve some justice today. I have done so because I realize that my firm must take full responsibility—morally if not legally—for Mr. St. Germain’s malfeasance. Beginning on Monday, this law firm will implement all necessary measures to ensure that by the end of the week every client of this firm that has ever paid money to ParaLex will be reimbursed in full, plus interest accrued at prime rate. I will be more than happy to provide you with evidence of that.”

  Ishmael gave a weary sigh before continuing. “I have also attempted to mete out appropriate punishment. Mr. St. Germain is in the process of clearing out his personal belongings. He has resigned from this firm. I have urged him to withdraw from the practice of law and turn in his license. He has promised to consider my recommendation. I intend to make him accept it, and I have reason to believe he will. Although the firm will repay the clients, Mr. St. Germain will, in turn, make full restitution to the firm. As of last Friday, his capital account with the firm stood at roughly ninety-five thousand dollars. He has signed papers relinquishing his claim to that account. He has also signed a promissory note for the balance, to be paid in full over the next eighteen months. Detective, I can show you those documents as well.”

  Ishmael took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He looked at me with melancholy eyes, and then turned to Aloni. “I realize that you are here today in an unofficial capacity, Detective. I am telling you what has transpired between Mr. St. Germain and myself because of what Rachel has told me about you. She has good instincts about people, Detective. She believes that you are a man of compassion. Your presence here today on your day off is eloquent testimony of that compassion. I give you my word that my law firm will take all necessary steps to fully compensate any client whose funds were used to pay phony ParaLex invoices. I give you my word that Mr. St. Germain is leaving this firm today and, I believe, the practice of law shortly thereafter. He has been punished, Detective. The punishment is severe. I have questioned him closely about the attack on Stoddard Anderson’s widow. I am convinced to a moral certainty that he had nothing to do with it. If you reach the same conclusion…” Ishmael let the thought complete itself.

  “We still have the act of vandalism on Rachel’s car,” Aloni said. He rubbed his chin. “That’s a serious offense, although it is outside my jurisdiction.”

  Ishmael nodded gravely. “Rachel and I spoke over the telephone at length on the subject this morning. Under my questioning, Mr. St. Germain confirmed her suspicions. He did it all—the car windows, the trunk of her car, the threatening phone call. He acted in the misguided belief that he could scare her off.” Ishmael looked at me with a weary smile. “He is hardly the first attorney to underestimate Rachel Gold. However, I have the sense that Rachel may be willing to walk away from that incident without pressing charges.”

  Aloni looked at me.

  I nodded. “I don’t want to have anything further to do with him.”

  “I intend to talk to the man,” Aloni said. “Alone.”

  “Certainly,” Ishmael said. “But when you’re finished asking questions, Detective, don’t forget about the people who don’t have to become his victims.” Ishmael leaned forward, the fatigue gone. “This law firm suffered a grievous blow earlier this summer with the loss of Stoddard Anderson. The departure of Reed St. Germain will add yet another layer of instability. So long as I can keep the true reason for his departure a secret, I believe his loss will not be a mortal blow to this firm. I believe we can hold this office together, maintain the client base. Detective, this office employs close to one hundred and fifty people—secretaries, messengers, word processors, and the like, as well as attorneys. These people are all innocent, as are the spouses and children who depend on them. Yet these are the very people who will suffer if this office cannot recover from this…this entanglement. Please consider the innocents when you decide whether anything further must be done here.”

  Aloni promised to keep that in mind. He said he would call Ishmael that night after he finished questioning St. Germain.

  Ishmael remained seated after Aloni left. His shoulders were slumped as he stared at the far edge of the conference table. His speech about all the people who depended on the firm reminded me of the weight of his responsibilities and the pain he felt over what he viewed as St. Germain’s betrayal. I remained silent until he concluded his meditations with a sigh.

  “Why?” I asked. “Reed St. Germain must be earning close to three hundred thousand dollars a year. This ParaLex scheme added less than fifty thousand dollars a year to his income. Why even do it? Surely he didn’t need the money.”

  Ishmael shook his head sadly. “But he did. Reed St. Germain achieved through marriage what he may never have been able to attain on his own, namely, admission to St. Louis high society and, through his wife’s family’s business, a handsome book of business. The price has been a marriage to an abusive and domineering woman. He appears to be quite intimidated by her—as well he should, since his social and professional status depend upon the continuation of that marriage. To that add the fact that she controls all of his personal finances. He literally hands her his draw checks twice a month. She deposits the money, handles the checkbook, pays the bills. She can account for every penny of their income. And apparently she does.”

  “Okay.”

  “That is the crux of Reed’s predicament: His wife controls the finances, and she is a suspicious woman. For you see, Reed St. Germain has one very expensive compulsion: fornication. He quite literally appears to be addicted to extramarital sexual relations. To feed that habit, he needs, among other things, an apartment in the city and a sufficient supply of money to entertain and buy presents for his various paramours.”

  “And so he invented ParaLex,” I said.

  Ishmael nodded. “He kept the individual ParaLex invoices small enough so that the clients would not ask questions. Indeed, the heirs of a multimillion-dollar estate or the beneficiaries of a multimillion-dollar trust fund would hardly notice a quarterly payment of two hundred dollars or less. ParaLex served as a ready source of cash that his wife could never detect.”

  “Until now.”

  Ishmael nodded gravely. “I am afraid that the punishment I imposed upon him this afternoon will pale in comparison to what awaits him at home. I understand that the wrath of Janet St. Germain is wondrous to behold.”

  He sat up and forced a smile. “Enough of this thoroughly disheartening topic. Let us turn to something upbeat, such as suicide. Tell me about your investigation of Stoddard Anderson.”

  I filled him in generally—very generally. I told him of my upcoming meeting with the claims adjuster and I told him that in all likelihood I would try to settle the accidental death issue. He seemed satisfied. Of course, I left out a few minor details—such as everything having to do with Montezuma’s Executor, including my meeting with Customs tonight and my rendezvous tomorrow with Albert Weidemeir to receive the contents of his safe deposit box. Why make it worse by telling him that the former managing partner of the St. Louis office—the one whose su
icide had already caused a damaging scandal in the legal community—had probably also violated U.S. and international law by arranging to smuggle into the country a pre-Columbian golden blade handle in the shape of Montezuma’s phallus.

  I promised to call Ishmael after I met with the claims adjuster.

  As I got up to go collect Benny and head off, Ishmael said, “I almost forgot.”

  “What?”

  “I did ask Reed about his meeting with that Mr. Panzer.”

  “And?”

  “Routine estate planning. Stoddard had handled Panzer’s estate planning. Panzer came in to meet his new trusts and estates attorney and to ask some questions about the advantages of a living will.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “You put his nuts in a vise and you turn the screws. You want Tezca, you first gotta squeeze the faggot.” Bernie DeWitt reached for another slice of pizza and leaned back against the headboard. He looked smug, as if he had said something profound. For all I knew about nuts and vises and the like, maybe he had.

  Ferd Fingersh nodded slowly and looked over at me. “He’s right. We arrest Panzer in the act of paying you for the Executor. We make sure it’s a clean arrest. Then we lean on him. He might just cooperate. If he does, he could lead us to Tezca, using the Executor as bait. When Tezca surfaces—boom.”

  Bernie nodded, chomping on the pizza. “Tezca surfaces and it’s ‘Assume the position, motherfucker.’”

  Fingersh shrugged. “He gets to spend some time down at Marion. Mr. Salazar returns to his client a hero. Not a bad day’s work.”

  It was Sunday night. We were in Cottage 14 of a motel along Watson Road in south St. Louis that rented these tiny cottages by the week, by the night, or by the hour. We had ours until 2:00 a.m. There were five of us: Ferd Fingersh and Bernie DeWitt of Customs, Rafe Salazar, Benny, and me. Bernie had just returned with four large pepperoni and mushroom pizzas and a case of cold beer.

  I had finally gotten in touch with Ferd Fingersh around five o’clock. He located the other two, and we all met at the motel at 8:00 p.m. I told them that I thought I might know where the Executor was by sometime tomorrow afternoon, although I didn’t tell them how I was going to find out. I kept my promise to Albert Weidemeir.