Firm Ambitions

by Michael A. Kahn

  “It was ruled an accident?”

  Ann nodded. “I think she sued the boat company.”

  A lawsuit meant court records and possibly press coverage. I made a mental note to pass that lead on to Benny and my mother. “Who was her husband?” I asked Ann.

  “Ronald Maxwell. He was one of those playboy types. Polo at St. Louis Country Club, stuff like that. He came from old money. His family had a brokerage house. I think he was a stockbroker there when she married him. A couple years later they sold the company for millions to one of the biggies.”

  “How long has he been dead?” I asked.

  “Maybe five years.”

  I gestured toward the 8x10. “So she was probably single when this was taken.”

  “Probably.”

  “Is she still?”

  Ann nodded. “She’s got a boyfriend, though. His name is Sandberg, I think. He’s the head of some company in town. They’re one of those power couples. It seems like once a month the Ladue News runs a picture of them together at some fundraiser.”

  “What’s his company?”

  “I can’t remember. Wait.” She stood up and started toward the door from the kitchen to the garage. “I’ve got some old issues of the Ladue News in the recycling bag. Let me check.”

  I rinsed my cup out in the sink while I waited for her. It was nearly eleven o’clock. I had one more stop to make on my way to the office that morning.

  “Here they are,” Ann said as she came back into the kitchen with a copy of the Ladue News. She placed it on the counter, opened to a two-page spread on a black-tie fund-raising benefit for the St. Louis Art Museum. The short article, headlined A PICTURE-PERFECT EVENING, was accompanied by several black-and-white photographs taken at the event. In one of them, Christine stood next to a good-looking man in a white dinner jacket. He vaguely resembled James Caan. The caption beneath the photo read: “Shep Sandberg, CEO of Midwest Refinishing Co., with his lady friend Christine Maxwell.”

  “Can I take that picture?” I asked her.

  “Sure.” She closed the issue and handed it to me. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “We have to look at every possible connection to Andros. According to his appointment calendar, Christine was one of his regular personal workout clients for at least a year. She stopped going to him about three months ago. Just because she wasn’t in his photo album doesn’t mean he wasn’t sleeping with her, too. If so, maybe we have a jealous boyfriend.”

  Ann glanced over at my copy of the 8x10 glossy of Mike Tyson, Andros, Nick Kazankis, and Sheila Kazankis. “Or maybe a jealous husband.”

  I nodded as I reached for the 8x10. I paused before putting it back in my briefcase, paused to study Sheila’s face again. Sheila Kazankis had been the star of the single most explicit and unerotic Polaroid in the entire photo album: posed naked on the carpet, her legs pulled back and spread wide apart as her fingers pulled her vagina open. When I had come across it in the album, I had sat back with a start. The camera flash had dyed the shades and patterns of genital pink into lurid steaks of red, so that at first it looked like a text book photograph of an appalling knife wound. That initial shock made me linger over the Polaroid. Her sad smile had burned itself into my memory. It was the same smile in the 8x10 glossy.

  I glanced at her husband in the 8x10, and then at Andros. They seemed like three pieces to a puzzle—three pieces that just might snap together if I could figure out how to get them correctly aligned.

  Chapter Eleven

  In addition to Andros, Firm Ambitions listed one other employee: Kimmi Buckner. Kimmi’s title was Administrative Assistant. She lived in Dogtown, which was just a short detour off Highway 40 on the way to my office that morning after I left Ann.

  Kimmi.

  I envisioned a perky little blonde with perky little boobs and a perky little tush.

  Names and titles can be misleading, as was clear the moment she opened the door to her little bungalow. There was nothing in the least bit perky about Kimmi Buckner, or any part of her. Indeed, she exuded a total absence of perk. Words like “sprightly” and “chipper” fit Kimmi Buckner the way a thong swimsuit fits an elephant. And like an elephant, Kimmi Buckner was large and lethargic.

  I introduced myself and told her I wanted to ask her a few questions about her ex-boss.

  She shrugged. “Well,” she said sullenly, “I guess you might as well come in.”

  She lumbered into the tiny living room. There was a battered La-Z-Boy recliner against one wall and a color television against the opposite wall. Above the La-Z-Boy was a framed painting of Jesus Christ with eyes rolling heavenward and a framed photograph of Pope John Paul II. Against the side wall was a rickety couch upholstered in orange corduroy. In the corner between the couch and the La-Z-Boy was a TV tray with three empty crumpled thirty-two-ounce bags of M&M’s. The television was tuned to The Price Is Right, and as I walked into the room the announcer hollered, “Ruthie Eppingham…COME O-O-O-O-O-O-O DOWN!”

  Kimmi winced as she lowered herself into the La-Z-Boy. “About a year,” she said in answer to my question.

  “Who was there before you?”

  She frowned in thought. “Linda Somebody-or-other. I never met her. Her old man got transferred somewhere. Alabama, I think.”

  I leaned against the doorjamb. “What were your duties?”

  She sighed listlessly, her eyes shifting back and forth between me and the television as she spoke. “I answered the phone. I sent out the bills. I opened the mail. I paid the bills. I deposited the checks. I typed his letters. I scheduled his appointments. I kept the business running.” She snorted angrily. “All that for seven damn dollars an hour.”

  “Did you ever hear about anyone threatening him?”

  She stared at me, her eyes narrowing. “Not exactly,” she said with a shake of her head. “But those girls were disgusting. Like dogs in heat around him. It made you want to puke. Threats? No, but some of those girls were desperate.” She grunted. “They’d call me three, four times a day, some of them, asking where he was, who was he with, when would he be back, why hadn’t he called them, was I sure I gave him their message?” She shook her head angrily. “Disgusting. Sometimes it was their husbands would call, checking up on their old ladies.”

  “Do you remember who?”

  “Are you crazy? Half the time the callers wouldn’t even tell me who they were. They’d kind of hem and haw around and sort of ask if I knew where he was or knew whether Mrs. So-and-So had an appointment with him and if so where that appointment was.” She squinted at me. “Let me tell you something, lady: if there’s a heaven up there, Andros ain’t in it by a long shot. You know what he was?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Her face flushed with rage. “He was an unrepentant fornicator. He’ll burn in hell.” She looked around the room, her eyes darting back and forth, as her breathing slowed to normal. The television caught her attention, and she fixed on it.

  “You don’t remember any names?” I asked.

  She looked at me with a frown. “Names of what?”

  ‘The husbands. The ones who called?”

  “Nah.”

  She was distracted by something on the game show. I waited until the commercial break, studying her as she watched her show, trying to figure out how she fit in.

  “Did you know he had a bottle of vitamins?” I asked.

  She snickered. “Sure. I had to order half the crap he took—seaweed, crushed eggshells, weird-sounding stuff.”

  “Where did he keep the bottle?”

  She gave an impatient sigh. “The police asked me the same thing. I’ll tell you the same as I told them. When he had his classes and stuff in the building, he’d leave it right on the desk in his office. When he left, he took the bottle with him.” She paused, and her stare turned cold. “Lady, if someone wanted to stick poison in ther
e, it wouldn’t have been hard. You’d just have to duck in there while he was running one of his classes, dump out some of those pills, and pop in the poison ones.”

  “But they’d have to get past you.”

  She snorted. “Big deal. We didn’t exactly have airport security in there, if you know what I mean. Those gals were in and out of that office all day long. Let me tell you something, he did more in that office than talk on the phone, if you get my drift.” She shook her head in distaste. “I didn’t like that place. I’m glad I’m done with that job.”

  “So he took the bottle with him when he left?”

  “Oh, yeah. He had to.” She rolled her eyes in derision. “Eight, four, and ten,” she recited. “That was his motto. Eight, four, and ten.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Eight in the morning, four in the afternoon, ten at night. That’s when he took those damn pills. He had a whole system. He took certain ones in the morning, others in the afternoon, others at night. He made sure he had that bottle handy when it was time to take his pills.”

  I kept my tone neutral. “It sounds like you don’t think much of him.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t spend a whole lot of time thinking about him. I got the job through one of those temporary secretary outfits. Most of my bosses have been jerks. He was worse than some, better than others. I guess I’m not jumping for joy that he’s dead, but I sure ain’t in mourning for him.”

  The commercial break ended and the announcer commanded someone else to COME O-O-O-O-O-O-O-N DOWN! At the next break I gave her my card and asked her to call me if she remembered the names of any of the men or women who had called her about the whereabouts of Andros or any of his clients. She put my card on the table by the crumpled M&M bags. I thanked her for her time and said goodbye. As I backed out through the front door, Kimmi Buckner was staring slack-jawed at the television.

  ***

  I got to my office shortly before eleven. After reviewing the mail, returning the morning’s phone calls, and dictating several deposition notices in one of my copyright cases, I tried calling Sheila Kazankis. Although the telephone directory had no listing under Kazankis, I was able to find her number in one of the lists I’d printed out of the Firm Ambitions computer.

  A businesslike female voice answered. “The Kazankis residence.”

  “Mrs. Kazankis, please.”

  “May I tell her who this is?”

  “Certainly. I’m Rachel Gold.”

  “And you are?”

  “I’m an attorney.”

  “Just a moment, Miss Gold.” There was a pause, and then the same voice returned. “What is the nature of your call, Miss Gold?”

  I was starting to get irritated. “It’s a personal matter.”

  “What sort of personal matter, Miss Gold?” Her tone was icy.

  “I don’t believe that’s any of your business. Now would you please put Mrs. Kazankis on the phone?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Gold. Good day.” And she hung up.

  I stared at the receiver in disbelief. Glancing down at my notes, I saw the next name on my list: Christine Maxwell. Reluctantly, I dialed her number.

  “Maxwell Associates,” a cheerful female voice announced.

  “Ms. Maxwell, please.”

  “And whom may I say is calling?”

  I told her. A moment later a different, deeper female voice came on. “Ms. Maxwell’s office.” This voice had a two-pack-a-day rasp to it.

  ‘This is Rachel Gold. Can I talk to her?” I was getting fed up with the gauntlet.

  She put me on hold and left me there for a full minute—a long time when you’re on hold—and came back on the line. “She’ll be right with you, Miss Gold.”

  A moment later, Christine came on the line. “Hello, Rachel. How are you?” There was forced friendliness in her voice, a layer of warmth one millimeter thick.

  “I’m fine, Chrissy. Yourself?”

  We spent a few minutes pretending we were actually interested in each other’s lives, and then I got to the point. “I need to talk to you for a few minutes. Would you have some time this afternoon? I could come by your office around four.”

  She hesitated. “Business?” she asked.

  “No. Andros.”

  Her voice went dead. “What about him?”

  “Everything about him. Whatever you can tell me.”

  She paused. “I’m afraid I’m busy this afternoon.” There was no trace of regret in her voice.

  “Fine. Is there a good time tomorrow?”

  “Why do you want to talk to me about him?”

  “Because you knew him.”

  “So did a lot of people,” she said, irritated.

  “I’m talking to a lot of people. You’re one of them.”

  Another pause. “I have a busy day tomorrow.”

  “So do I,” I said. “But I’ll work around your schedule. All I’m asking for is fifteen minutes.” I tried to keep my voice congenial. “Take a look at your schedule, Chrissy, see if you can find a hole in it tomorrow, and call me back this afternoon. I’ll make myself available when it’s convenient for you.”

  “I’m very busy tomorrow.”

  “As I said, so am I. But I’ll make room. Give me a call. Goodbye, Chrissy.” I hung up.

  A few minutes later, I left to meet Benny and my mother for lunch. On the way out, I gave my secretary the telephone number for Sheila Kazankis. I told her to tell the woman who answered the phone to give Sheila a message to call me after lunch. Maybe she’d have better luck getting through than I had.

  ***

  “Who goes first?” I asked after the waitress refilled my coffee mug and set a long-neck bottle of Budweiser in front of Benny.

  “Wait,” he said. “Here comes Sarah.”

  I turned just as my mother arrived at our booth. We were having lunch at Blueberry Hill, which just so happens to be the finest bar and grill in America. It has a first-rate jukebox (which was actually playing “Blueberry Hill” at the moment), an entire room of dart boards, an awesome hamburger, and a cavelike dance room in the basement named in honor of Elvis.

  I scooted over to make room for my mother. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hello, sweetie.” She slid in and looked up at the waitress. “I’ll take a cup of coffee, honey.”

  My mother scanned the menu while the waitress went to fetch her coffee. When she returned with the steaming mug, my mother ordered a salad.

  “A salad?” Benny said when the waitress left. “At Blueberry Hill you order a salad?”

  “What?” she responded, not giving an inch. “I should order blueberry pie?”

  I put an arm around my mother’s shoulder. “Don’t pay attention to him, Mom. I think a salad is the only thing on the menu he didn’t order this time.”

  “Hey,” he protested, “I just taught a two-hour seminar on the fucking Hart-Scott-Rodino Act. I’m in dire need of replenishment.”

  I gave Benny an exasperated look. I’d been bugging him for years to cut down on his intake of fatty foods. “Benny, I’d call a quarter-pound chili dog, a large bowl of chili, and a large order of fries more than just a pit stop.”

  “Enough with the food,” my mother said. “Let’s hear what you found this morning. First, Rachel.”

  I told them about Uncle Harry’s box of chemicals and Ann’s identification of Nick and Sheila Kazankis in the 8x10 glossy and my unsuccessful attempt to talk to Sheila on the phone. I described my interview of Kimmi Buckner and my efforts to get a meeting with Christine Maxwell.

  “Is that the one who ran over her husband in the lake?” my mother asked.

  “What’s this?” Benny asked avidly.

  I told him the story Ann had told me that morning.

  “Sliced open his head with a propeller b
lade,” Benny said with a grimace. “Ouch. I hate when that happens.”

  I turned to my mother. “Ann said there was a big lawsuit over it.”

  She nodded. “I remember reading about it. I’m going to the library this afternoon. I’ll find it on microfilm.”

  “How’s the Widow Maxwell doing these days?” Benny asked.

  “She’s got her company and a new boyfriend,” I said. “Ann showed me his picture in the Ladue News. In fact,” I said as I reached into my briefcase to pull out the issue, “here he is.”

  I opened the paper to the spread on the Art Museum function and handed it to Benny. He looked at the picture, nodded, and handed the paper to my mother. She read the caption and frowned.

  “What?” I asked.

  “His company’s been in the news.”

  “Sandberg’s company?” I asked.

  My mother nodded. “Midwest Refinishing. I recognize the name.” She leaned back, trying to remember. “A couple months ago. Something with pollution. I’ll find the article when I’m at the library.”

  The waitress brought Benny another beer and told us our food would be right out.

  “So?” I said as I turned to Benny. “What have you found?”

  “A little here and there,” he said. “Where do you want to start?”

  “With the company. What do you have on Firm Ambitions?”

  “You were on target,” he said. “The sole shareholder of Firm Ambitions is Capital Investments of Missouri, Inc.”

  “Which is what?” I asked.

  “Good question. It’s a Missouri corporation. According to the Missouri secretary of state’s office, it’s current on its taxes and in good standing.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Apparently nothing but own Firm Ambitions.”

  “Does it have any officers?”

  “Only one: Ishmar al-Modalleem. He’s president and secretary.”