Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  Frances listened, amazed at Penny’s candor. “Did Miles talk about Clio’s death on the drive back?”

  “No. He didn’t say a word. He seemed almost in shock.”

  “Are you familiar with the terms of Miles and Dad’s partnership agreement?”

  “No. Miles doesn’t involve me in any of his business deals.”

  “Does Miles have his own lawyer?”

  “Yes. Excuse me.” Frances heard Penny put down the receiver and blow her nose. When she returned, her voice was clearer. “Ian Feldman is Miles’s lawyer. He handles everything.”

  “Do you know where he works?”

  “He’s a corporate lawyer at Stockton and Purvis. On Wall Street. I seem to remember Miles mentioning he specializes in partnerships, business arrangements of some kind, but I’m not sure. I only met him once, myself, when Miles wanted me to sign some papers.”

  “I see.” Frances knew of Stockton and Purvis by reputation. Small by New York standards, it had made a name for itself in the eighties representing several parties in high-profile hostile takeovers. It was known for aggressive tactics, although that described most lawyers Frances knew.

  “Did you want to speak to Miles?” Penny asked after several moments. “Because unfortunately he’s out of town.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Mexico City.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “On Sunday. It was rather unexpected, but some business deal came up at the last minute.”

  “Before or after you went to Southampton?”

  “When we got back home on Saturday, he was on the telephone late into the evening. He told me he was leaving the next morning. That he had to go for important business. That’s the way Miles is. He copes with grief by being efficient. I think his primary concern is keeping Pratt Capital going, you know, so that Richard won’t have to worry about that on top of everything else.”

  “When do you expect him to return?”

  “I’m not sure. I know he wants to be back for the memorial service, but he’s not certain he’ll make it. I sent some flowers to the house. You don’t know if they’ve arrived, do you?”

  Frances wasn’t listening. Miles had left town twenty-four hours after his partner’s wife died. What possibly could have been so important? “If you could let him know I called, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll give him the message. I’ll see you on Wednesday. If there’s anything at all I can do, please let me know.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Frances hung up.

  Frances quickly called Stockton and Purvis. Ian Feldman’s secretary informed Frances that Mr. Feldman was out of the office. She promised to relay Frances’s name and number when he called in for his messages.

  Frances led the dogs outside and settled herself on the porch step. The air had cooled, and the slight breeze soothed her flushed cheeks. The two canines sniffed at smells perceptible only to their astute olfaction as she watched the changing light of dusk and listened to the sound of crickets.

  Crossing the street, Sam approached, carrying a basket of potatoes.

  “Harvested today,” he said, extending the basket toward her. “You look like you could use some comfort food.”

  “My mood is that transparent?”

  “How about if I mash you some? It won’t take more than a few minutes. They’re mighty good. Yukon gold. Nothing like a mashed potato to calm the spirits.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” Frances smiled. “But I’m not hungry. How about a drink instead?”

  “Sure, Miss Fanny. Coming right up.” Sam disappeared inside Frances’s house and returned moments later with two plastic tumblers of dark rum on ice. He hiked up the legs of his khaki trousers and settled himself on the step beside her. They clinked their glasses and sat in silence, sipping their drinks. The strong alcohol burned in Frances’s throat.

  “I saw the news. Do you want to talk?” Sam asked after a while.

  Frances looked directly into his hazel eyes. His wavy hair fell in all directions, and wisps covered the lines in his forehead that she knew were there. He had sun-browned skin and thin, cracked lips. “I trust you, Sam. I trust you more than anyone I know.” Her voice quivered. She glanced down at his bony ankles, bare feet, and long thin toes with recently clipped nails. “Help me. I can think of a lot of people who disliked Clio, myself included, I suppose, but I can’t think of anyone who would actually kill her, anyone who would risk getting caught.”

  “Why do you think it’s someone you know?”

  “It had to be someone from her world. I mean, given how quickly they think she died, it had to be someone with access to the Fair Lawn Country Club. No one saw anything unusual. The killer must have literally been one of them.” Her sentence hung in the air. Frances raised her glass, inhaled the scent of rum, and took a sip.

  “Did she have a lover?” Sam asked.

  “You mean besides my father?”

  “Well, since your father’s stroke.” He looked away modestly.

  “Not that I know of. Although I’m realizing that I know very little about their life.”

  “You know your father loved her. That’s something.”

  “It’s odd, though. There are moments, like when I was talking to Meaty about the medical examiner’s report, when I feel like I’m investigating the death of a total stranger. And then someone will say something or make a reference, and I’m reminded that this person was a part of my family, that my dad is devastated, that none of us will ever be the same.”

  “You know as well as I do that you shouldn’t be on this case.”

  “You sound like my boss. Malcolm’s doing everything possible to keep me away.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  “No. But whether I’m on this case formally or not makes no difference. All I have to do is close my eyes and see Dad’s face, his eyes, to know that I’ve got to find her killer.”

  “Finding out who killed her is not going to change that sadness.”

  “I know, but at least I’ll give him an answer.”

  “Give him or yourself ?”

  “Both of us, I guess.”

  “Why does that matter to you so much?”

  Over the past two days Frances had wanted to be in control, but she was slipping. At that moment she felt like a lost child, scared, vulnerable, and desperate to get home. Was it possible to explain to Sam that if she solved the crime, if she did something special for her father, it might make up for their years of relative estrangement? Could he understand that her drive to find Clio’s murderer might be a mission to lead her back into the warmth of her father’s embrace? Such thoughts were irrational, she knew, and she felt ashamed to speak them aloud.

  Tears filled her eyes, and she looked up at the sky, hoping to keep them from spilling out. Sam put his arm around her, and she could feel the firmness of his muscles against the top of her back. She turned her head away from him and stared at his hand resting on her shoulder, the two scarred stumps of flesh. He had lost his fingers in a tractor accident, working corporate fields in Washington State.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  “You can ask me anything.”

  Frances felt his grip tighten slightly on her shoulder. “Do you ever miss your fingers?”

  “Not much anymore. I’m not surprised like I used to be when I look down and see that they’re gone. Although I do miss wearing my wedding ring. Rose wouldn’t like that one bit.”

  Frances laughed quietly at his humor. Sam had been a widower since before Frances had met him, and he rarely spoke of his late wife, who died after a brief illness at the age of thirty-eight. My age, Frances thought. Sam had come east after her death. With the money that workers’ compensation paid for his lost digits, he’d bought himself the small potato farm where he now lived.

  “Rose insisted that men should wear rings, too. ‘Why should married men waltz around with nothing to show their status? Only gets ’em into trouble,’ she used to say
.”

  For the second time in as many days, Frances recalled her own engagement. On the carousel in Central Park, Pietro had proposed. He had climbed up on the bobbing painted horse that Frances rode, put his arms around her, and showed her the ring in his hand, too garish for her taste, a huge emerald-cut diamond that cost more than she now earned in a year. She’d never put it on, just watched him hold it as it reflected the colored lights. They had whirled around in circles with circus music playing.

  “You know, maybe I could use those mashed potatoes after all,” Frances said, turning to face Sam.

  Sam smiled again. Together they went inside. The many questions surrounding Clio’s death could wait until tomorrow.

  Tuesday, July 7

  Malcolm wants to see you,” Sue muttered as Frances walked past the secretarial station toward her office at the end of the hall. Frances didn’t stop. Sue won the prize for worst secretary in the world. She couldn’t spell, couldn’t type, couldn’t articulate, and rarely transmitted a telephone message or number accurately. Given that Sue snacked without interruption, the few documents Frances did ask her to prepare were returned covered with fingerprints, food stains, or grease. Sue used her limited mental power to calculate and recalculate the number of vacation days she had accumulated.

  Frances set her briefcase on her desk and picked up the telephone to dial his extension.

  Malcolm Morris answered on the third ring. “I’ll be right down,” he informed her before she even said hello. Apparently caller identification had eliminated the need for introductions or pleasantries.

  True to his word, Malcolm appeared on the threshold of Frances’s office moments later. His dramatic figure nearly filled the threshold where he stopped and leaned against the door frame. A college quarterback who still ran six miles every morning, he kept thirty-pound dumbbells under his desk so that he could lift weights in his office. His deep brown eyes shone out from his tanned forehead and wide cheekbones. Underneath the flourescent overhead lighting, his silver hair looked almost blue.

  “What’s the story with the Bryant case?” he asked.

  Bryant. It took Frances a moment to remember the name. So preoccupied had she been the last seventy-two hours that her investigations had been forgotten. Andrew Bryant, whose palatial home across the street could be viewed from several of the dirt-encrusted windows of the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office, was chairman of the local Democratic committee and had backed Malcolm’s opponent in the last election, John Wetherbee. With high hopes of attracting the attention of people in the national Democratic machine, Bryant had done what so many wealthy political contributors do: funneled money in excess of legal limits to his candidate through his children, relatives, and household servants. The New York State Ethics Commission had referred the case for criminal prosecution while it simultaneously pursued its own investigation and sanctions. Malcolm had been particularly vehement that Bryant be indicted since the file first arrived in the office.

  “You know, Malcolm, I’ll be perfectly honest with you,” she said, pleased that even under the circumstances the details returned to her. “Bryant was stupid, but he didn’t do anything that thousands of others haven’t done, including some of your own contributors, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t start that, Frances. You know damn well that my people spend a lot of time reviewing my list of contributors, checking names, addresses. This doesn’t happen in my campaign. We would have caught so many people with the same street address. We would have checked on the ages of the Bryant kids.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. My only point is that I think we should let Ethics deal with it.”

  Malcolm took a step into Frances’s office and closed the door behind him. He appeared taller than before as he stood directly across the desk from her, looking down. When he spoke, his voice was low and firm. “I thought I made it perfectly clear that I wanted an indictment in this case. Have you or have you not presented the evidence to a grand jury?”

  Frances paused for a moment before responding as she recalled the status of the case. “I’ve done most of the presentation. They’ve seen back records. We subpoenaed the Bryant kids, one of whom is eight years old, whose testimony, by the way, was that his allowance was fifty dollars a week, and that he saved up to make a political contribution. It was cute.”

  “Are you telling me there’s no case?”

  “No. That’s not what I’m saying. Detective Marsha Kendrick told the grand jury about her interviews with the cook, the maid, and the Bryants’ driver, all of whom said that Bryant gave them cash as a gift, and that they made contributions to Wetherbee’s campaign shortly thereafter because they wanted to. Kendrick asked one of the servants what they knew about Wetherbee. Basically, she didn’t even know what office he was running for. That’s where we are. Disgusting conduct, but I don’t really know that a prosecution makes sense given that Ethics will sanction him anyway.”

  “That’s not a decision you’re in a position to make.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m the district attorney. I’m charged with enforcing the laws, including the campaign finance laws. There has been a violation, an egregious one at that. I want an indictment.”

  Frances tried to give him a bemused look, a look that would break the mounting tension. She wanted them both to laugh about the eight-year-old campaign contributor, the lying servants, the shared humor of prosecutors brought on by witnesses with incredible stories, but Malcolm’s face showed no sign of amusement. He put one foot up on the edge of her desk and leaned forward as if he might leap across it. The muscles of his legs strained the seams of his pin-striped pants.

  “Let me be perfectly clear. There’s no discussion about whether to bring this case. The decision’s been made. By me. Let me know when the grand jury returns the indictment.” He took his foot down. “I’m sorry about Clio, I really am, but if you’re going to stay in this office, I need you to concentrate on your work.” He turned and walked out.

  Stunned, Frances watched his long stride down the hall and listened to the click of his hard soles on the linoleum floor. Never once in her seven years as a prosecutor in Malcolm’s office had he questioned her decisions, her judgment, or the exercise of her prosecutorial discretion. His concern was always the scoreboard, and his chief financial crimes prosecutor had a fourteen-to-three track record in this fiscal year. So why now?

  Malcolm’s reputation as a crime fighter above politics, as a district attorney who made decisions based only on the facts and the law, was too good to risk tarnishing by his appearing to use the criminal process to exact vengeance on his enemies. He didn’t need this case. The ethics commission would do it.

  Frances sat back and picked at a slowly spreading hole in the well-worn upholstery of her chair. It was barely one o’clock and she was exhausted. She rifled through a pile of message slips. The Victims Assistance Program coordinator had called to say that the Hortons weren’t entitled to compensation because Avery’s crime wasn’t violent. Bureaucracy at its finest, Frances thought. Had he broken into their home, beaten them, and locked them in a closet while he stole their money, the state would help them out, but where they were merely emotionally ravaged and financially wiped out by a slick con man, they got nothing.

  Frances rarely allowed herself to question why she did what she did. She enjoyed the criminal law, the intellectual intricacies of putting together a case, her work as a prosecutor since she had first started twelve years ago in the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office fresh out of law school. The work fit her disposition. Prosecutors and the state troopers they worked with were a jovial lot, unpretentious, content to share stories over beers or doughnuts, depending on the time of day. Assistant district attorneys, by and large, did not spend their professional lives in emotional quandaries about what they were doing. They had Right on their side. They protected victims. They put away criminals.

  Then, every so often, or increasingly more often, Frances no
w thought, something like the Avery case came along. A simple case: Bad guy befriends innocent elderly couple and steals their money. Avery should have sold his assets, paid the Hortons $517,000, and gone off to a minimum-security facility to pay his debt to society. But instead the Hortons lost and Avery won. Were the Hortons guilty because they had been stupid enough to trust a fellow church member? Frances shook her head as if to rid her brain of this thought.

  Dreading the telephone call she had to make, she dialed the Hortons’ number. Roger picked up on the fifth ring.

  “It’s Frances from the DA’s office.”

  “Oh,” he said expectantly.

  “Unfortunately, I’m calling with only bad news. I wish it were otherwise.” Frances paused and tried to think of how to explain what she dreaded relaying. “Do you remember the Victims Assistance Program, the one I told you about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I tried to get that organization to bend its rules a little bit so that you and Mary Lou could be compensated for your losses like other victims of crime. But the problem is that, by statute, the money available to the Victims Assistance Program isn’t intended for restitution. It’s limited to victims of violent crime, to pay for medical expenses, funeral expenses, that type of thing.”

  There was a long pause. “Well, I suppose, then, we’re lucky. Apparently things could have been worse.”

  Frances was silent. Why was Roger Horton stoic when he had been treated so badly? “I’m sure it doesn’t seem that way. I know how badly this case has gone for you. I wish it could have been different. I wish I could have done something more to help.”