Death Benefits

by Michael A. Kahn

  “I don’t like the plan,” Benny said as he twisted the cap off a longneck bottle of Budweiser beer. “‘Why should Rachel take that kind of risk? What makes you think this Remy Panzer is just going to pay her the money? What if he has no intention of giving her the money? What if he plans to hurt her? Or kill her, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Don’t worry about that faggot,” Bernie DeWitt said, pointing at Benny with his beer bottle.

  “Rachel will be perfectly safe,” Ferd Fingersh interjected. “You have my word on that. If we couldn’t guarantee her safety, we wouldn’t even consider it.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Benny asked.

  “It’s not difficult when it’s done right,” Fingersh explained. “We know how to do it right. Once Rachel figures out where Anderson hid the Executor, she’ll call it in to us. We’ll set up an exchange with Panzer for tomorrow night. We’ll make sure it’s in a safe place. By the time Panzer arrives that night, we’ll have an army of men in position, including five or ten sharpshooters. We’ll be monitoring everything with high-powered audio equipment and video cameras with telephoto lenses and night vision.”

  “If he’s wearing a watch,” Bernie said, “we’ll be able to read what time it says. Better yet, we’ll have half a dozen sharpshooters about to put a bullet right through the center of the dial.”

  I was seated on the desk against the wall. I leaned over and lifted another slice of pizza out of the box on the bed nearest me, stealing a glance at Rafe Salazar as I did. Benny was on one bed, shoes off, back against the headboard. Bernie DeWitt was in a similar position on the other bed. Ferd Fingersh was seated on the well-worn armchair.

  Rafe Salazar was leaning against the wall near the bathroom, his arms crossed over his chest. Earlier, just after Benny and I arrived, Rafe had pulled me aside to ask if he could buy me a drink after the meeting. I had said yes. I glanced over at him now. He was wearing stone-washed jeans, a black T-shirt with a Telluride Film Festival logo, and brown cowboy boots. The T-shirt accentuated his strong arms and lean torso. The tight jeans accentuated his narrow hips and certain other fine qualities. He looked awfully good.

  “We’re going to cover some other things with you, Rachel,” Fingersh said. “Such as what to do when you make contact with Panzer. We’re going to tell you some of the instructions you’ll have to give him. What he should wear, things like that.”

  “I should be Rachel’s contact,” Rafe said in a soft but authoritative voice.

  Ferd looked over. “You?”

  Rafe nodded solemnly. “Let’s not forget that the only real party in interest here is my client,” he said. “My reason for being here is to ensure the safe return of El Verdugo. My client is willing to cooperate with the federal government’s ancillary goal. So long as your pursuit of Tezca does not jeopardize the return of El Verdugo, my client will continue to cooperate. I want to make sure we don’t lose our focus.” He glanced at me. “I also want to make sure we don’t lose Rachel. You’re using her to bait the trap. I want to make sure there’s a safe way out of the trap before it slams shut.”

  “Hey, Ralph, we’re not going to put her at risk,” Bernie DeWitt said. “We ain’t the fucking Mexican federales.”

  “I’d feel better if Rafe was my contact,” I said.

  Ferd put up his hand to silence Bernie. “That’s great,” he said, smiling at me. “We can always use the help. Bernie and I will be plenty busy tomorrow making all your security arrangements anyway.”

  Benny cleared his throat. “As long as we’re all looking out for Rachel’s interests,” he said, “I think we ought to address the issue of her fee for all this.” He turned to Rafe. “I understand your client is willing to compensate Rachel.”

  “Yes,” Rafe answered.

  “According to what Rachel’s told me,” Benny continued, “Panzer, or whoever Panzer represents, paid millions for that golden woodie. Panzer’s offered to pay Rachel a quarter of a million dollars for finding it. He claims that’s the fee he promised to pay Stoddard Anderson. Rachel’s planning to turn that fee over to her client, Mrs. Anderson. Now, if this thing came on the market legally, I assume your client would have been willing to pay millions, right?”

  “Perhaps,” Rafe answered.

  “Seems to me the least they can do is match Panzer’s offer to Rachel,” Benny said as he turned to me. “Doesn’t that seem fair to you? Your client could use two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, right?”

  Benny’s proposal caught me off guard.

  Rafe answered before I could. “That’s a reasonable request,” he said. “I’ll pass it on to my client tomorrow morning with a recommendation that they agree to it.” He shifted to me, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I will try to have an answer for you by noon.”

  I smiled back.

  “Which reminds me,” Ferd said, lifting a large briefcase onto one of the beds. “We’re all going to be moving around tomorrow. Bernie told me about Rachel’s problems getting in touch with Rafe the other day. Can’t have that happen tomorrow.”

  He opened the briefcase and pulled out two portable telephones—one for me and one for Rafe. He explained how to use the phones and recharge the batteries. He had us each write down the other’s portable telephone number, along with emergency numbers for reaching Ferd and Bernie.

  “These are open lines,” Ferd said. “That means you could have other people listening in—usually by accident, but sometimes not. It’s safest to assume someone’s listening. So be careful what you say when you’re on these phones.”

  ***

  Rafe and I never got to have our drink. The five of us were in the motel room until midnight. Ferd and Bernie went over everything—from what I should say to Remy Panzer to how to select the best place for Remy and me to exchange the money for the Executor. Benny asked dozens of questions about the security arrangements, each of which seemed to elicit a long answer punctuated with acronyms and names of electronic devices. By eleven-fifteen I was stifling yawns. By quarter to twelve I had dozed off once, my head slumped forward onto my chest for maybe thirty seconds before I snapped up in surprise, my eyes coming into focus on Rafe Salazar, who was watching from across the room. He smiled. I shrugged. He winked. I stretched, trying to stay alert.

  As the meeting droned on, I stood up and stepped outside the motel room into the hot, humid August night. There was a full moon and the sky was cloudless. Rafe joined me moments later.

  I leaned against him, staring up at the moon. “I’m glad you’ll be my contact.”

  “So am I.” He put his arm around my shoulders.

  “Think they have room service?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “For that drink you promised me.”

  “Here?” He looked down at me.

  “You said the meeting’s almost over.” I raised my eyebrows. “We have the room until two.”

  He shook his head. “Not tonight, Rachel Gold. Not the night before a day like the day tomorrow may be. When we finally”—he looked at me and smiled—”have our drink together, it most definitely will not be in a seedy motel like this.”

  “Oh? And where will it be?” He had a delicious, musky scent.

  “I know a special beach on the east coast of Africa.”

  “Africa?”

  “Miles of pure black sand that sparkles like black diamonds. Palm trees along the beach, the jungle rising behind you like a dark green wall. You can rent one-bedroom cabanas right on the beach. They bring the drinks to you on the little veranda in front of your cabana as the sun sets. The sunsets are spectacular.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s magnificent, Rachel.”

  We were silent for a moment.

  “Africa’s far away,” I finally said.

  “Most exceptional things are,” he said.

  “Wh
at if I can’t wait till then? What if I get real thirsty?”

  The door behind us opened. As we turned, Benny, Ferd, and Bernie walked out. The meeting was over.

  ***

  An hour later I was in my bed, staring at the ceiling, when I heard what I first mistook for the chirp of a cricket. After the second chirp I realized the noise was from the portable telephone on the carpet by the bed. I lifted it onto my stomach and unhooked the receiver.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “You didn’t get an answer to your last question,” Rafe said.

  I snuggled back against the pillow and smiled into the dark. “I can’t remember the question.”

  “You wanted to know what happened if you couldn’t wait for Africa, if you got thirsty before then.”

  “That’s right. Well, what’s the answer?”

  “It’s in my hotel room. I got it tonight, after we parted.”

  “Sounds intriguing. But remember what Ferd said: This isn’t a safe line.”

  “I don’t mind who hears.”

  “Then tell me the answer.”

  “A bottle of French champagne. Moët et Chandon. For tomorrow night. For when this is all over. To celebrate. If you think you might still be thirsty.”

  “That’s sweet, Rafe. I’ll be thirsty. I guarantee it.”

  “Sweet dreams, Rachel.”

  “Good night, Rafe.”

  I fell asleep with a smile.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It was 10 a.m. Monday morning and I was still waiting to see Dr. Jacob Bernstein, the dermatologist. According to Stoddard Anderson’s personal calendar, Dr. Bernstein had been the last physician Anderson saw before his death. I had come to Dr. Bernstein’s office because Albert Weidemeir would not be retrieving the mystery envelope from his safe deposit box until noon. This had seemed a good time to wrap up this loose end.

  I was in the reception area of Dermatology Consultants, absently leafing through a tattered issue of People magazine. I’d been there since eight-thirty, and my rage had been building steadily ever since. Bernstein hadn’t returned my call on Friday. He hadn’t returned my call on Saturday. He hadn’t returned my call on Sunday. And now he’d let me cool my heels in his reception area for an hour and a half.

  By the time the nurse finally opened the door to the inner sanctum and said, “Miss Gold?” the Dr. Jacob Bernstein of my imagination had become a white-coated Hermann Goering.

  The real Bernstein was anything but. He was short, chubby, and bald, with a gray walrus mustache and sad brown eyes. He stood to shake my hand when the nurse showed me into his small, book-crammed office, and he profusely apologized for not returning my calls.

  “I was at my nephew’s bar mitzvah in Cleveland, Miss Gold. He’s my younger brother’s only son. I was there from Thursday until late last night. I’m very sorry I didn’t call you. One of the other doctors was on call for all emergencies. I only returned calls from patients I was worried about.”

  It sounded plausible. “How was the bar mitzvah?” I asked.

  “Beautiful. Thank you for asking.” He removed a pipe from the pipe rack on his desk. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  I shook my head. “I like the smell.”

  “I know you’ve been waiting out there for a long time. There was nothing I could do. When you arrived I had a patient in every examination room—a basal carcinoma in Room A, a terrible outbreak of herpes zoster in B, and inflamed acne in C.”

  He paused to tamp the tobacco into the pipe bowl. After he got it lit, he looked up, his face surrounded by smoke. “How can I help you?” he asked, waving away the smoke.

  “Tell me about Stoddard Anderson.”

  Bernstein sighed. “Such a sad ending.”

  “He saw you a week before he died.”

  Bernstein leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “His appointment with you is in his personal calendar,” I explained. “Doctor, I represent his widow. Here,” I said as I fished the retention letter out of my briefcase.

  As he read it, I explained the nature of my representation of Dottie Anderson.

  “There are two issues,” I said. “First, did he intend to kill himself when he took out the policy less than five months ago? And second, was he sane at the time he killed himself? As far as I can tell, you’re the last physician to see him before he died. You may be the best witness as to his mental condition.”

  Bernstein frowned as he puffed on his pipe. “I’m a little reluctant to talk about these matters, Miss Gold. I don’t mean to be difficult, but I have always tried to honor the privacy expectations of my patients. After all, Mr. Anderson was a patient of mine.”

  I had already anticipated this concern—indeed, I’d thought of it yesterday as Benny and I drove down to the Abbott & Windsor offices after my meeting with Albert Weidemeir. I’d had Benny research the scope of the physician-patient privilege while I had my encounter with Reed St. Germain.

  I explained to Dr. Bernstein that the privilege in Missouri belonged to the patient, not the doctor. Even if Stoddard Anderson’s privilege had somehow survived his death, it could be waived by his heirs, his representatives, or any beneficiary under his life insurance policy.

  He was still uneasy, but I persisted.

  “He took out the insurance policy about four months ago,” I said. “Was he a patient of yours back then?”

  Bernstein shook his head. “I saw him only once. About a week before his death.”

  “Why did he come to you?”

  “Mr. Anderson had a severe case of seborrheic dermatitis.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Dandruff.”

  “Did you treat it?”

  “I prescribed some medication.”

  “Anything else?”

  Bernstein puffed on his pipe, staring at me with his sad eyes. “I drew a blood sample. I sent it to a laboratory for testing.”

  “Why?”

  “I must tell you, Miss Gold, I’m most uncomfortable discussing this matter. Mr. Anderson swore me to secrecy.”

  “Doctor, Mr. Anderson is dead. Nothing can hurt him now. His widow is alive. She is the sole beneficiary of his life insurance policy. The reason he decided to kill himself could have a direct bearing on how much money she receives. Now, he came to you with a bad case of dandruff. Why did you take a blood—” I leaned back in my chair. “Is bad dandruff a symptom of AIDS?”

  Bernstein nodded. “Occasionally it is. A severe case of seborrheic dermatitis, especially in one who has never previously had such a problem, can be a sign of AIDS. I explained that to Mr. Anderson. I attempted to ask him about his personal life, but he refused to answer any of my questions. He agreed only to let me send the blood sample to the laboratory.”

  “And did you?”

  Bernstein nodded sadly.

  “When did you get the results?”

  “It took a week.”

  “Did you call him?”

  “He called me. He’d call every morning.”

  “You talked to him on the day he disappeared, didn’t you?”

  Bernstein nodded.

  “Did you tell him over the telephone?”

  Bernstein sighed. “I asked him to come to my office to discuss it. He refused. He wanted to hear it over the phone. ‘Do I have AIDS?’ he asked.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  Bernstein’s eyes were moist. “When I told him he moaned. Like a wounded animal. I begged him to come see me. He said he needed a few days alone. He made me promise I wouldn’t tell a soul.” Bernstein pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and daubed the corner of one eye. “I never dreamed he would kill himself.”

  ***

  It was quarter to eleven when I walked out of Dermatology Consultants. My meeting with Albert Wei
demeir was still almost two hours away. I had enough time to drop by the hospital to check on Dottie Anderson and then swing by Washington University to pick up Benny from his interviews at the law school.

  I had been to the hospital each day, and each day her status had been unchanged. But today the news was dramatically better. According to the doctor, Dottie had come out of her coma late last night, around two in the morning. She was asleep when I arrived, and still under medication, but her doctor was confident she would fully recover. I was ecstatic.

  As I sat by her bedside while she slept, I thought about the last days in the life of her husband. Ironically, AIDS would have destroyed Remy Panzer’s power over him. Up until then, Panzer could blackmail Anderson with the threat of exposing his homosexuality and pederasty. For someone of Stoddard Anderson’s generation and in his position—especially someone who had publicly cast himself in the role of the archconservative Republican gay basher—exposure would be devastating. But more was at risk than simply being humiliated before his peers. Anderson had to know that disclosure of his appetite for young boys would lead, at best, to social exile and, at worst, to jail. And nothing could be worse or more dangerous than being a convicted child molester in a state penitentiary.

  But when Anderson learned he had AIDS, the threat of exposure must have given way to the certainty of exposure. Far more powerful men of his generation with far more at stake—men such as Roy Cohn and Rock Hudson—had died exposed, and Anderson surely must have realized that he would as well, if he allowed himself to die of AIDS.

  With Panzer’s hold over him destroyed, Anderson would have taken steps necessary to keep Montezuma’s Executor out of Panzer’s grasp. He surely must have detested Panzer by then. Once he had completed the task of hiding the Executor, he killed himself. Even his manner of suicide—bleeding to death under a shower—was probably an attempt to hide his disease. He must have hoped that by the time someone discovered his body most of the blood would have drained out, leaving too little to test for AIDS.