by Danny Lopez
“Ah, of course. I’m sorry.” She smiled, stood quickly, and strutted around the desk. “May I tell him what specifically you’d like to see him about?”
“About Liam’s Fleming’s death.”
“I understand. But could you be more specific?”
“More specific than what?”
“What about Liam’s death is it you’d like to inquire about?”
I took a deep breath, ran my hand over my hair. “I want to talk to him about Beach City Holdings. Specifically.”
“Good. Thank you. I’ll see if Mr. Pearlman can see you.”
Vivian turned on the spot and click-clacked her heels across the office to the other side of the large wooden door.
A moment later she came back and held the door slightly open for me. “Mr. Pearlman will see you.”
I walked in. She closed the door behind me.
Pearlman’s office was not big, but it looked it. No shelves or books or art or anything that might give it a personal or professional feel. It was just a large mahogany desk with a few papers, a computer, a telephone, and the pungent smell of cigar smoke that seemed to hover over the man sitting behind the desk.
“Mr. Pearlman?”
“That’s me,” he said without getting up or extending his hand. His eyes did all that without effort. Then he grabbed the cigar that was resting on an ashtray, brought it to his mouth, and sucked in a long drag. He replaced the cigar on the ashtray, and a soft cloud of blue smoke escaped his mouth as he spoke. “What is it you need to know, Mr. Vega?”
Pearlman looked like a southern lawyer in a bad Hollywood movie: a nice pressed shirt, gold cufflinks, a red bow tie, a pair of thin gold-rim glasses hanging on his nose. He had a nice head of salt-and-pepper hair. The clean shave, the perfect hair, clothes, manicure, it all screamed money—and plenty of it.
There was no place for me to sit. Obviously, Pearlman did not receive visitors in his office. I figured if he had to talk with Mr. Fleming, he would go to the house on Sanderling, or meet him at some fancy restaurant over drinks.
“I’ve been looking into the death of Liam Fle—”
“To the point, Mr. Vega.”
“Beach City Holdings,” I said quickly. “What’s Mr. Fleming’s stake in the company?”
“Bob’s been very generous with Liam. He’s funded the company.”
“That’s not what I asked,” I said—getting back to the point.
Pearlman raised an eyebrow. “As far as I know, he doesn’t own any of it.”
“And you would know because you’re his lawyer.”
“You assume correctly. Mr. Fleming believed in Liam’s real estate business. He is a true believer in long-term investment. It was how he managed his hedge fund, and he was proud of Liam for taking such a long-term view with his own plans. Mr. Fleming doesn’t believe in what you’d call a quick buck.”
“What was Liam’s long-term plan?”
“To develop and sell the properties, I assume. I wasn’t privy to the details.”
“So you don’t know if there is a provision in the corporation in case of the death of its officers.”
“I do not.”
“So you could say that with the death of Liam’s partner, Bob Fleming’s lost his investment.”
“I believe Liam’s lawyer could answer that better than me.”
“Joaquin del Pino.”
“I can assure you that Liam’s passing is worse for Mr. Fleming than the loss of any investment.”
“I thought those two didn’t get along.”
He smiled sadly. “Father and son.”
I nodded.
He tugged at his sleeve and glanced at his little wristwatch, then stretched his hand and picked up his cigar and held it up in the air. As far as lawyers went, I could tell he was as loyal to his client as a dog to his owner. I wondered if he would go to jail for Mr. Fleming.
“Did you like Liam?” I asked.
His eyes opened just a little wider, giving away his poker face. “Why, I didn’t know him.”
“You never met him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“But you knew of him. And you wrote some pretty big checks for him.”
“I did.”
“And you probably heard stories or complaints from Mr. Fleming.”
“What are you getting at?”
“You must have had some kind of an opinion of him.”
“That’s not my job.”
“But you’re human. You must’ve felt something.”
That stopped him. I could almost hear the wheels in his head turning. He set his cigar back on the ashtray and brought his hands together on the desk. “Between you and me, Mr. Vega, I thought Liam was taking advantage of his father.”
“Because of the money?”
“Not so much the money. Mr. Fleming has plenty of it. I think it was more his love … and I believe perhaps guilt.”
“So you think Liam was playing him?”
He grinned. “I’ve known Bob a very long time. He is an extremely smart and strong-willed individual. But he’s older. He’s changed.”
“Softened?”
“I think he wanted to make up for not having been there for Liam and his mother.”
“But money can’t buy you love, huh?”
He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Fleming seemed happy to be helping his son, even if it didn’t bring them closer together. I would say he saw a day in the future when they would reconcile.”
“A long-term investment,” I said drily.
His mouth twitched like he was going to grin, but changed his mind. “Is there anything else, Mr. Vega?”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” I said. “The current Mrs. Fleming …”
“What about her?”
“What’s her deal?”
“Deal?”
“Who is she? Who was she before she became Mrs. Fleming?”
He glanced at his cigar on the ashtray, a thin stream of blue smoke rising. Then he looked back at me. “Brandy Weston, of New Haven, Connecticut. Her father was an obstetrician. He passed away when she was fourteen. Her mother fancied herself an artist, painted landscapes, which she sold locally at a gallery in New Haven and took on commissions, portraits mostly. Brandy took after her. Became an artist herself.”
“Any real money in the family?”
“Comfortable,” he said. “But not rich. No.”
“Brothers and sisters?”
“None.”
“How did the two meet?”
“At the club.”
“Which club?”
“The Founders Club.”
“She was a member?” The Founders was probably the most exclusive golf club in the county. Like something trying to rival Trump’s Mar-a-Lago.
“Brandy was having an art exhibit at the clubhouse.”
“I see.”
“What are you getting at, Mr. Vega?”
“I didn’t want to go to Mr. Fleming with this. But right now, as things stand, I’m pretty sure Liam was murdered.”
“So Bob was right.”
“It’s looking that way.”
“And you suspect Mrs. Fleming is involved?”
“Did she sign a prenup?”
“A prenuptial agreement. Yes. Absolutely.”
“If she divorces Mr. Fleming, she’ll lose everything?”
“Not everything. But she will certainly lose a lot. Mr. Fleming agreed to set her up … rather comfortably.”
“Right. But she’d lose the cushy lifestyle?”
Pearlman tilted his head and studied me with his beady blues. Then he picked up the cigar and took a long draw, two loud puffs like he was kissing the stogie, then set it down again. “There is something you haven’t told me,” he said when he replaced the cigar on the ashtray.
I crossed my arms over my chest and took a deep breath of cigar smoke. “I’m pretty sure Mrs. Fleming’s having an affair.”
The side of
Pearlman’s lip turned up in the slightest hint of a smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said.
“You’re kidding me.”
“Bob’s been married to Brandy Fleming for five years. She’s had affairs before. Both men were discreetly paid off and the affairs ended. Bob tolerates it only so much. But he understands. Mrs. Fleming is still young and beautiful. And he—”
“And he’s an old drunk.”
“Mr. Vega—”
“Like you said, let’s get to the point. Fleming’s quite the drinker. So they have this arrangement, or at least he accepts that this will happen. I’m not judging. But it means my theory that Mrs. Fleming and her lover were found out by Liam doesn’t hold any water.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I had a suspicion. I thought Liam had found out about Mrs. Fleming having an affair and was going to tell his father. I imagined Mrs. Fleming plotted to have Liam killed in order to keep him quiet.”
“I see,” he said without batting an eye at my preposterous theory. “Mrs. Fleming knows Bob would not divorce her for having an affair so long as she’s discreet.”
“And since she’s done it before and hasn’t been sent packing by Fleming, she wouldn’t be worried about Liam telling on her.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just thinking out loud,” I said.
He stared at me. “Have I answered all your questions?”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. He didn’t offer a hand or a nod. “I’m good.”
I took a short step back, turned around, and walked out that big, heavy door. Vivian McCutcheon was at her desk, sitting erect in her blue suit just like a pretty robot.
CHAPTER 29
WHEN I CAME out of the building, the sun was beginning to turn toward the horizon, stretching shadows along Main Street so that the pattern of the cafés and cars parked at an angle made a psychedelic blanket of man-made objects. At the end of Main Street was Sarasota Bay. Despite all the development and the big condos, Sarasota was still a beautiful town.
My meeting with Pearlman had thrown me off. He was one cold character. But I guess he was the kind of guy you wanted on your team if things ever got tough. Fleming’s bulldog. I couldn’t blame him for being how he was.
And the marriage contracts and prenups. I didn’t know what to make of that except that being a millionaire must be a shitty way to live. Even love was a commercial transaction.
I made my way across Main Street and then across Palm Avenue straight to the bar at Two Señoritas. I’d been craving a tequila for days now, and the conversation with Pearlman had melted away whatever resolve I’d had to curb my intake of hard liquor until I was done with the case. Liam’s and Jaybird’s murders had me stumped. I had nothing. I didn’t know where to go next. No leads. No suspects. No motives.
I took a stool at the deep end of the bar and ordered a shot of Siete Leguas and three limes. When the Mexican bartender set the drink in front of me, he smiled and nodded at the clear liquid in the glass. “Good stuff, eh? Salud.”
I nodded and took in the smell, the mild smoky and bitter agave bouquet. I took a short sip. It went down and spread inside me like a soft firecracker. Lifted me to the heavens like an angel. I sighed, leaned back, tried to think, clear my head of the noise—just think. Motive, motive, motive.
Just as I ordered another tequila, I heard a familiar voice. “Mind if I sit here?”
Vivian McCutcheon. She was still in her blue lawyer costume and medium heels, but she had let her hair down. And I was pretty sure she had applied a layer of fresh lipstick around her pleasant smile.
“Absolutely not,” I said and pulled out the stool for her to sit. “Please.”
She set her purse on the counter and sat, and in a single swift motion, signaled the waiter for two of whatever I was having.
“Long day at the office?” I said.
“Long week,” she said. “It might not seem like much when you come in, but we’re constantly working on one thing or another. And Mr. Pearlman, a gentleman most of the time, can be quite curt when things get complicated.”
“And all that just for old man Fleming?”
“One client,” she said and nodded at the bartender who was setting down the drinks, one shot for her and another for me, and a little plate with more lime wedges and a little hill of coarse salt at the center.
She touched the rim of the shot glass with the tip of her fingers, studied it. “Yes,” she said and held up her glass, “but Mr. Fleming does have a company and a foundation and a trust, all of which need constant attention.”
I touched her glass with mine, making a dead clink. Then she said, “Well, here goes.”
“No, no,” I said and put my drink down.
She frowned.
I placed my hand over hers holding the glass of tequila. Guided it back down on the counter. “Don’t drink it like that. This is good stuff. You’re not supposed to drink it in a shot.”
“But that’s how everyone drinks it.”
I smiled. “Not everyone. Just take a sip. Enjoy.”
“And the lime and salt?”
“You can follow with a bit of that if you like. Try and take in the flavor. It’s an ancient Aztec drink. Respect it.”
She gave me a look like I was nuts. Then she took a short sip of the Siete Leguas and smiled. She set it down, took a lime, and touched her lips with the lime.
“Good?”
She nodded and took another short sip and set the drink down. She licked the tip of her pinky, picked up a dab of salt by pressing it on the plate with her finger, and then placed it in her mouth—a very sexy move.
“So,” she said and tossed her head to the side. “My understanding of all this is that Liam might’ve been murdered.”
“It looks that way,” I said. I had to keep things short, vague. I didn’t know Vivian. And I didn’t know her intentions. Why was she even here?
She lowered her head. “It’s a shame.”
“Yup.”
“He was a great guy.”
“A great guy with a few too many secrets.” I leaned forward and looked into her big brown eyes. “How well did you know him?”
“We dated in college,” she said. “But that was a while ago.”
“Really, UF?”
She nodded. “I was pre-law, but after graduation I came to the realization that I couldn’t afford law school. He set me up with this job.”
“Is it okay?”
“The job?” She grabbed her glass of tequila with two dainty fingers and spoke while staring at the clear liquid. “It’s a job. It pays well. And I’m learning.”
“Saving for law school?”
She chuckled. “Not nearly enough.”
“It ain’t easy,” I said.
She grinned. “No, it sure isn’t.” Then she took a long sip of the tequila, grimaced, her eyes slightly glassy, and laughed. “That’s much better.”
This was all terrific—but the warning lights were flashing all over inside my head. Everyone’s a suspect. Think clearly, Dexter, think clearly.
“Tell me something,” I said seriously. “Do you have any idea who might’ve wanted to hurt Liam?”
She stared at me for a moment, her eyes going far away and coming back. “No.”
“Not from the college days?”
She shook her head. “Not that I can think of.”
I leaned back on my stool, draped my arm over the backrest so I could get a better look at her. “And what about Jay—I mean Terrence Oliver?”
She smiled. “Terrence and Liam went to boarding school together. They both grew up hating their fathers. I know Liam did for sure. But I think with Terrence it was worse. He basically ran away, came to Sarasota. He’s the one who convinced Liam to move down here.”
“And Liam convinced you to move here.”
She looked to the side; her eyes seemed to go far away. “I moved here when Mr. Pearlman offered me a job.”
I sighed. “What
can you tell me about Mrs. Fleming?”
“I never met her.”
“Really?”
“I never met Mr. Fleming either. All I know about him is what Liam told me. He made him sound like a tyrant. But I guess I could also see Liam’s prejudice because of the way Mr. Fleming treated him.”
“And how was that?”
“Like property,” she said quickly as if she’d been prepared to answer that question for a long time. “Did you know when Liam’s mother died, he just told him over the phone. He didn’t even fly him home for the funeral.”
“Fleming told me.”
Vivian glanced down at her drink. I studied the bottles lined along the back of the bar. Vivian coming here and talking about the case didn’t seem like the natural progression of things. Even if she’d been a friend of Liam’s. I glanced at my watch. It was just past six. Sure, maybe she’d just gotten off work and wanted a drink. But she’d walked straight up to where I sat. Too clean. She wanted to know what I knew.
I didn’t have time to waste so I just came out with it. “Why are you here?”
“What?”
“Why are you here? Did Pearlman send you down here to see what I knew?”
“What? No. I just got off work. I wanted a drink.”
“I’m serious, Vivian. All this secrecy is making me sick.”
“I told you. I wanted a drink.”
“Bullshit. You came right here and sat next to me—on purpose.”
She drew back. “And what’s wrong with that?”
“Something’s going on that you’re not telling me. You started on the subject of Liam. Why?”
“I thought we were having a conversation.”
“Fine,” I said and turned back to face the bar. I grabbed my little glass of tequila and took a long sip. I set it down, licked a wedge of lime. I could feel her eyes staring at me.
After a moment she said, “I’m sorry.”
I took another short sip. No lime.
“Okay, you’re right,” she said. “You’re absolutely right. I came down here because I wanted to know how things were going.”
“Go on.”
“Liam was a good friend. I cared deeply for him.”
“You’re not helping me, Vivian. I need to know everything.”
She stared at me, her eyes a little wider. Her lower lip trembled slightly. She bit it, held it steady under her teeth.